Roses and Memories
by DreamTheDream
Summary: After suffering a tremendous loss, Christine finds herself asking "How can you know someone you've never met?" Experiences that aren't hers and places she's never been to plague her night and day. And music...Could Erik be the answer to all her questions?
1. Prelude

Hello dearest phans and readers! I would just like to take a moment to welcome you to my first phanphiction. I've been reading works in the 'Phantom' archive for a year now, so I thought I'd finally give it a shot. I'm a bit nervous to be honest-this is my first novel length fic and it's slightly AU, so please bear with me. Firstly, this story is based off Cecelia Ahern's novel, _Thanks for the Memories_, so huge disclaimer to her. There are several things that take place in the novel that I wish to keep the same-such as the miscarriage. I was going to change that just so it seemed different from what Ahern wrote, but I met a woman recently who had a miscarriage and it was really hard on her and I felt a combination of pity, sorrow, and helplessness for her, and because of that experience I decided to keep it the same.

I'm not sure how frequently I will update. I was planning on finishing writing it first, so that way updates wouldn't be sporatic. But I couldn't help myself; I'm really excited for this story. That being said, I will write and update as often as possible, but life and personal problems usually get in my way, especially during the summer months. But I will do my best!

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the talented writer Cecelia Ahern, the musical genius Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and Susan Kay. Nothing is mine...save for the few Erik cookies on my table for you reviewers. Enjoy!

_Prelude_

My eyes are closed and I stare into the dark abyss before me. We humans are a strange race. Always being told that if we don't want to face something all we have to do is close our eyes and everything will go away. But now that my eyes are closed and a weight has been lifted off me, I welcome the pain with open arms.

I am dangling over the abyss. Falling and floating. Down, down, down. I refuse to open my eyes. If I open them, cold reality will be waiting for me. I would much rather be confined to a dark, ignorant world. Ignorance is bliss and the time old saying goes.

Life is a strange thing. We're always rushing. No time. Rush to wake up in the morning, rush to work, rush to make dinner. Rush this rush that. Time is an invaluable thing always taken for granted. Everyone is guilty of it. A second goes by and you will never get it back. A second to go back in time to change what wasn't right. To go back and kiss your husband goodbye, wish him a good day. A second to go back and stay with your gut instinct on a test.

A second to go back and take my time.

I feel so empty. I lost part of my life…and part of my heart. My child is gone. Taken from me. I place a hand on my stomach. Perhaps I will be able to join my child. But where? Where would God-if there even is one in this cold world-take my baby? Bring me too, I plead. Bring me with you so I can apologize to my baby.

I am sorry, I will say to it. I'm sorry I ruined your life before you even had the chance to start it. I'm sorry I won't be there to comfort and hold you when you have a nightmare. I'm sorry I won't be there to take you to your first day of school or protect you from a bully. I'm sorry I can't tell you to stay away from that boy or to chase the girl of your dreams. I'm sorry I can't see you on your wedding day or on your first day of work. I'm sorry I can't see you smile as you have children of your own and make a life for yourself.

I am sorry.

I feel someone near me. "Christine? Oh God, Christine! Please, stay with me, little one! It's going to be alright Lotte! Hold on, little one! Please, don't take her! Not my Christine! Stay with me Christine! Stay with your Papa."

He is sobbing now. I haven't seen him cry since Mum passed. He clings to my hand and tells me the ambulance is on its way. He is grabbing on to my hand as though it were a lifeline. I've lost my baby, but I won't let him lose his.

My heart is broken, and yet it pumps on.

Goodbye, child mine.


	2. The Sign

I probably should explain this story a bit better, so for your reading pleasure, here is the "synopsis" from my profile:

Christine, suffering from a tremendous loss and a loveless marriage with Raoul, is now asking herself "_how can you know someone you've never met?_" During the day, Christine has memories that are most certainly not from her lifetime, trys new foods that she would never even think twice to look at, and music...there's something about music. At night she is plagued by dreams of places she's never been to (much less heard of) and people she has never met. Christine is convinced she has gone insane...until a series of events lead her to the one person who may have all the answers she's been searching for.

Erik is restless. Between composing his new opera and building a life in Paris, there isn't much free time to stop and smell the roses. Yet, on a trip to the hospital with Nadir, Erik finally stops to read a sign-"blood donations today"._Someone's life could be depending on you right now_. Finally convinced, Erik's blood is the only thing to really come from his heart in a long time. But one day, when he is in a music store, he sees a woman whom he is positive he knows. _But why can't he remember her?_ When he receives a dozen roses with a thank-you note attached, he is sure he is at the tail end of a joke. Yet the surprises keep coming. Thoroughly intrigued, Erik sets out to solve this mystery, which puts him on the point of no return. E/C Modern day

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine and all medical references and information come from blood. co. uk and radiologyinfo. org (minus the spaces, obviously)

Chapter 1

One Month Earlier

Nadir Khan clutched the lower left side of his back and moaned in pain. It had started out as a simple stomachache, but as the hour passed, the pain spread to his lower back. _Damned body_, he thought bitterly to himself. _Can't age gracefully_. He sat down on the Persian couch and looked out the window of the Fulham district of London. People bustling about trying to get to work on time and children running to school. Nadir picked up the cordless phone and tossed it in his hands, debating whether or not to call an ambulance or ask Erik to take him to the hospital.

Erik. The man had inhabited himself in Nadir's "music room", which was merely a study with a piano. Nadir didn't see the sense in Erik owning a flat in Paris when he was constantly here in London. He set the phone back down and made his way carefully to the study.

"What do you want, Khan?" came Erik's reply when Nadir knocked on the door.

"Oh come now Erik. Is that any way to treat a life long friend?" he chuckled through the door, but stopped immediately from a sharp pain on his left side. "I was actually wondering if you could do something for me? You see, I-"

Erik opening the door and standing ominously in the doorway, his half white porcelain mask staring down, mocking him almost, cut him off. "Oh, Daroga, our friendship has always been based on favors, hasn't it?" Erik looked down at Nadir and noticed the way he was holding his back. "Aren't you still a few years too young for back pains?"

Nadir rolled his eyes and sighed. "That is what I came to talk to you about. My stomach has been bothering me all morning and now the pain has moved to my lower back. And since this really isn't normal, I was wondering if you could drive me to the hospital."

Erik groaned. _Giving up an afternoon for you over my opera had better be worth it, Khan_. "Where is Antoinette? Can she not take you?" Antoinette Giry, another "close" friend of Erik's, had been living with Nadir during the past few years. Not so much as lovers, but as friends with a common purpose-to get Erik on his feet and on his own. After knowing Erik for so many years, they both considered themselves good friends and equally able to put up with Erik's tantrums. Yet Erik was clingy-he was quite the opposite; Erik always preferred his solitude, but he never really had a place to call his own. In the past year, Nadir and Antoinette set out and began looking for a suitable place in Paris, as France was his place of birth.

Eventually through much searching, they came across a Victorian-style flat that overlooked the Seine and had a gratifying view of the Opéra Garnier. Much work had to be done on the flat, as it had been uninhabited for quite some time. Only the parlor held its original Victorian furnishings and taste. The sole reason Erik agreed to live there was because of the grand piano left behind in the parlor. At the present time, Erik resided with Nadir and Antoinette while he left the contractors in Paris to rebuild his flat, all according to his designs of course.

"She is out doing some shopping for the week. God forbid I call her while she is shopping. Don't make me beg Erik-the pain is unbearable."

Erik's eyes softened to his friend, but he refused to let his emotion show. _Damn you, old man_. "Get in the car."

* * *

_Dear God, I hate these places_, Erik thought as he watched Nadir complete the necessary paper work at the desk in the emergency room. Screaming children, deadly pathogens floating up his nose, men and women in those horrid white lab coats. Not to mention the looks and stares he received. This was exactly why Erik never ventured out of the house often. The beckoning sound of his grand piano was much more alluring.

"You deserve it sometimes, you know," Nadir said, looking at the opposite wall.

Erik turned his head and glared at him. "What are you blabbering on about now Khan?"

"You always say that the human race has never shown you any mercy or compassion, but how much do you expect when you constantly throw them death stares?"

Erik clenched his fists in anger, ready to throttle his friend. "You're going to have more pain than in just your lower back if you don't cease talking. And for your information," he added icily. "I have done nothing to this pathetic excuse for a human race to deserve such unkindness. They should be thankful all they get are death stares."

"But what about that man in Moscow?"

"He deserved it!" Erik snapped. "Meddlesome fool."

"And what about-," Nadir was cut off by a young female in a white coat calling his name and Erik reaching over to grab his throat. Nadir jumped up as much as his body would allow him. "No need to be hostile. Are you coming or not? I'm afraid to leave you here with all of these people."

Erik glanced around quickly and knew he didn't need to be asked twice. _Good, get me out of this god-forsaken hellhole_. He followed Nadir and the woman down the labyrinthine corridors until she finally settled them in a small patients room. The woman, whom Erik presumed to be the doctor, glanced at him quickly before turning her attention to Nadir.

"So, Mr.…-."

"Khan," he finished for her.

"Mr. Khan. I am Dr. Lanchbury. What brings you in today?"

"Well, you see…" Erik didn't bother paying attention anymore. It was already clear that this doctor was more interested in his mask than finding out what was ailing Nadir. He began tapping his foot on the floor and looking around the room. Several issues of _Better Homes & Gardens_ lying in a bin on the wall. Posters about how to properly do the Heimlich maneuver and CPR, the importance of washing hands, and the anatomy of a human ear.

One sign in particular caught Erik's attention: "Blood Donation Drive: Give Blood, Give Life." What really struck Erik was the bottom of the advertisement: "If you knew a day's pay would save a life, would you give one day a month?"

"I see you've noticed the blood donation sign," Dr. Lanchbury stated as she took Nadir's blood pressure. Erik finally looked at the woman-she had to be no older than twenty-five, he assessed. Dark, straight hair with matching eyes. Tall and thin. _Too thin_. Much to his dismay, she continued talking. "Have you ever donated blood before?" Judging by the way Erik was scowling, Dr. Lanchbury decided he hadn't. "It's quite simple really. We always take walk-ins and we ask a few quick questions about your health and lifestyle." Erik snorted. _As if there's much to tell_. "Next we prick your finger to take a drop of blood to be sure you aren't anemic. Then we take just under a pint of blood. All of this only takes about ten minutes. Plus, you get a cookie and the satisfaction of saving someone's life." Dr. Lanchbury finished and took the sphygmomanometer off of Nadir and looked back at Erik-he was still scowling at her.

"I don't like needles," he said simply, trying to find a good excuse. Dr. Lanchbury opened her mouth to further argue her point, but just then, Nadir flatulated, to which Erik gave him a disgusted look.

"I can't help it! I'm an old man with deteriorating health!" He threw up his hands in frustration. _A deteriorating rectum, more like_.

"We are done here, Mr. Khan," Dr. Lanchbury said, with a slightly defeated look. "But now we must go over to Radiology for an ultrasound-there could possibly be an infection in your kidneys."

Nadir looked up and arched his eyebrow. "Wait. Aren't ultrasounds for-."

"Pregnant women, yes," Dr. Lanchbury finished his question, almost sounding annoyed. Erik chuckled quietly to himself. "But they are also used to look for diseases and other maladies in the stomach and back."

Nadir was only able to produce an "Ah" as the doctor led them through the maze of hallways.

"Right through here, Mr. Khan," she gestured to a darkened room. "You may come in as well, Mr.-?"

"Erik."

She gave him a sincere smile. "Alright Erik. My name is Sophia." She held out her hand to him, which he shook lightly. Not knowing what to make of the entire situation, he followed her into the room.

"Alright, Mr. Khan, I'm going to need you to lift up your shirt so I can spread the gel." As Dr. Lanchbury began rubbing the gel with the transducer and looking at the monitor, she picked up the conversation as if it had never ceased. "You can look away if you like. Or we can give you a rubber ball to squeeze. It only feels like a pinch."

Trying to find another excuse, Erik said, "I'm rather busy as of late."

"Well, like I said, it only takes ten minutes. You could drop by quickly before or after work. We're always in need of donations-blood supply is constantly low."

"You see, I'm going back and forth to Paris and you know how easy it is to catch illnesses on those trains. I'm actually feeling a sore throat coming on. My sister has some heart problems too-runs in the family." Nadir began laughing, but immediately covered it up as a cough.

"I can check that out for you if-,"

"No!" He half shouted._ You _will_ die for this, Khan_. "Thank you though. I really don't think-,"

"Erik, are you afraid?"

"Me? Of course not!"

"Good, then you will meet me tomorrow afternoon back in the emergency room. We can go out for dinner or drinks afterward, if you like." Defeated, Erik nodded dumbly. She turned her attention back to Nadir and repositioned the transducer over the left side of his stomach. "Well, Mr. Khan, it looks like a case of kidney stones. I'm afraid there's nothing medically I can do. You will have to let them pass through the urethra by drinking lots of fluids, which may be painful, depending on how big they are." She handed him a small piece of paper. "Here is a prescription for any pain you might have."

"Thank you, Dr. Lanchbury," Nadir said, re-tucking his shirt in.

"I hope you get well quickly, Mr. Khan." She smiled and turned to Erik. "I will see you at five o'clock tomorrow Erik." She turned and left, leaving them alone.

Nadir broke the momentary silence. "So...you have a sister?"

Erik growled loudly. "Damn you to hell, Khan."

"What?! I really can't help the flatulence anymore!"


	3. Dinner

I'm so so sorry about the wait! I know it's inexcusable, there were a number of things that prevented me from writing. My boyfriend recently left for the Marine Corps, and I think he took my inspiration to write along with him. Secondly, my mother just remarried, so I had to help with preparations and now we're moving everything into a new house. Third, I transferred universities, so I've been trying to get situated. But I certainly hope this chapter makes up for it! I hope I got all the characters right. Erik and Nadir seemed ok, but I wasn't sure about Madam Giry. Please let me know what you all think-I'd love hear your thoughts!

Chapter 2

"He's _what_?!"

"Donating blood," Nadir said for the fifth time, now bored. He, Erik, and Antoinette had been eating at the dinner table back at their flat while he explained to Antoinette what had transpired at the hospital.

_No, I'm sky diving off the Eiffel Tower._ Erik rolled his eyes and poked his steak, not even remotely hungry. He _was _planning on going back to the music room to compose when they had returned from the hospital, but Antoinette had finished cooking dinner and dragged him to the table.

"Does he even know what the concept of 'donating' means?"

"I'm _right here_, Antoinette!" Erik slammed his fist down on the table.

"I apologize Erik." She pauses. "So _do you know_ what donating entails?"

Erik's face burned red with anger. "Of course I know what it entails!" he yelled. "They take some blood and give it to some poor soul who needs it!" _Stupid woman_.

"And then she asked him out for dinner and drinks afterward!" Nadir exclaimed, sounding as though a cure for cancer had been discovered.

"He's going on a date?" Antoinette half whispered.

"_Right here!_" His words fell on deaf ears.

"Yes, well, she didn't leave much room for debate. He is meeting her at five o'clock tomorrow."

Antoinette clapped her hands together. "Well, that's wonderful Erik! It's about time you socialized with women. Perhaps she'll be the one for you."

"The one to drag me back to the hospital to have my face poked and prodded at! She didn't even _see me_. She saw the mask and how much money she could make off me."

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic," Nadir chided. "Honestly, I think all of the drama in your operas are going to your head. This woman, for Allah knows what reason, fancies you and wants a date. The least you could do is be civil toward her."

"Yes, I'll be sure to be civil toward her as she sticks a giant, killer needle in my arm," Erik said sarcastically, as he continued to poke and pick apart his steak. "And do you know what else?" He waited until he was sure he had their attention. "All of the donations are anonymous. I won't even know whose life I saved."

"Erik! How much more self-centered can you possibly be?" Antoinette said, exasperated. "Please don't tell me you will go looking for this person in search for some kind of repayment!"

"Lie to me and tell me you wouldn't be the least bit curious to at least know the name of the person your blood went to." Erik pondered for a moment. _However, _some_ kind of repayment would be nice_. "No, I will not go out and stalk the person. But don't you think it would be nice to receive flowers or a gift basket with a note saying 'Thanks for saving my life'?"

Nadir laughed, but Antoinette glared at him. "Surely you must be joking Erik!"

He continued. "Or maybe have someone do all of your shopping for you, or be a personal driver? Buy drinks after a day at work, box seats at the English Chamber Orchestra, stop a rabid bear from attacking you at the zoo-"

"Erik!"

"You're right, that's not fair-it would probably kill them."

"I really do hope you're joking," Antoinette said seriously.

"Yes, of course I'm joking," he said, exasperated. He stares down at his food, which was still untouched, aside from the stab wounds from his knife. "But you know, of all the years being mistreated by society, being stared at time and again, you would think that someone following me around, ready to cater to my every whim, would be something I deserve." He sighed. "I just feel…like I was pushed and shoved into this whole thing."

"Then don't give blood, stand the poor woman up. It's your life, not mine, nor Nadir's, and we can't tell you how to live. Though I highly doubt a needle will kill you. Just think of the wonderful feeling you'll have when you see a basket of flowers at your front door with the morning paper. Wouldn't that be nice?" With that, Antoinette stood up and began cleaning the dishes. Erik sat back in his chair, feeling like a scolded child.

Nadir followed suit. "I've said my piece. It's your turn to figure out where to go from here."

* * *

Erik sat in his Mercedes Coupe in the parking lot of the hospital, contemplating. _What do I have to lose?_ The back corner of his brain asked.

_Your dignity for starters. What are you going to do or say if this woman asks if there is some sort of disease on your face? _The car was beginning to warm up, as the sun had made its appearance in London after days of never-ending rain. That, or Erik's nerves had caught up with him. He could feel his body shaking and his stomach was in knots.

_But I _am saving a life, _and no matter how you try to put it, it's still a pretty damn good feeling._ With that, Erik stepped out of the car and walked into the emergency room.

"Oh! Erik! There you are!" Sophia called over from the main desk. "Glad to see you came back. I thought you weren't going to come back for a moment there."

Erik scratched the back of his neck and felt the blood rush to his cheeks. "Em, yeah, I came back," he said, not sure of a proper reply. Erik took a look around the room. An elderly woman was lying on a bed, attempting to take out her IV, claiming that she had somewhere to be. In another room, a man, whom Erik guessed to be in his mid-thirties was sitting up in his bed, staring at the opposite wall with bruises marring his face, both arms broken. Pieces of his clothes were ripped and missing

"Erik?" Sophia called him out of his trance. "Are you alright? You look a bit lost. Nervous?"

"No," he said plainly and kept his eyes on the young man.

"Car accident," Sophia said, noticing Erik's interest. "He lost his wife," she said gravely. "She was in the passenger seat. Killed instantly when an intoxicated driver came up the wrong lane."

"That's horrible," Erik said, not sure how to handle the situation. He'd never lost anyone close to him, save for his childhood dog, Sasha. He couldn't even fathom losing someone whom he'd planned on sharing the rest of his life with, someone whom he cherished above all else.

Sophia stared between Erik and the young man for another moment before breaking the silence again. "Are you ready to begin then?" Erik nodded. "Alright. Follow me then." Sophia led him down a different set of corridors and attempted to make conversation, but closed her mouth when she saw the grim look Erik was wearing. They walked into a large room, which resembled an atrium, but there were several hospital beds assembled, rather than chairs. Sophia led Erik to a vacant bed and handed him a folder with information.

"Read that through while I set everything up. If you have any questions afterward, I'd be happy to answer them for you."

"Have you read, understood, and completed the health and lifestyle questionnaire?" Erik nodded, feeling the muscles in his arm tense up.

"All the information you've provided is true and accurate to the best of your knowledge?" Erik's throat closed up. He nodded and she pulled out a small needle. "This is just to check for anemia." She cleaned the pad of his finger and pricked it.

"Ow!" Erik jumped back on the bed.

"Believe it or not, that's the most painful part."

"I'll believe it when I see it," he grumbled. She stood up and prepared the needle and tube and attached it to the pint-sized pouch where the blood would be collected. Erik took this time to assess her further. She wore a white blouse with a black sweater vest and black slacks with the customary white lab coat. He took a chance to look at her breasts-small, but not too small. Erik's eyes went back to the floor when Sophia came back and strapped the tube to his wrist.

She handed him a rubber ball. "I'll need you to squeeze this when I stick the needle in-it'll speed up the process." Erik's brow began to sweat. His cheeks were noticeably red. _I knew I should have stayed home and worked on the opera. But no-_

"Ouch!" Erik looked up from where he lay-Sophia was sliding the needle into the crook of his left arm. There was a small sting, but nothing excruciating. A look of surprise came across Erik's face.

"I told you it wouldn't be so bad," Sophia smiled. "Now just squeeze the ball slowly and you should be done in about five minutes. Let me know if you feel light headed." Erik nodded. He watched the blood flow from his arm, through the tube, and collect into the pouch hooked onto the bed. He waits for the nausea to set in, but it never comes. Instead, a warm feeling takes its place.

Ten minutes later, Sophia carefully removed the needle and tube and Erik looked at his pint of blood with a sense of pride. He almost wanted to take it upstairs and hand deliver it to someone special, as it is the first kind thing to ever come from his heart in a long time.

* * *

"So Erik, what do you do exactly?" Sophia asked sweetly after they had been seated at Le Gavroche, a lucrative and much sought after French restaurant by many high end Londoners.

Erik pondered his answer. "I mainly compose music, but I also do some architecture and design on the side."

"That's very fascinating! What sort of music do you compose?" She asked, seeming thoroughly interested. She placed her chin in the palm of her hand and leaned forward slightly.

Erik cast his eyes from his menu to Sophia. She had changed from her blouse and slacks into a magenta v-neck cardigan and very fitted black dress pants, which left little to the imagination. Erik let his eyes wander down slightly before mentally berating himself that no woman could ever love him the way he wanted to be loved, much less _want_ to share a bed and intimacies.

He took a sip of his wine to cool his thoughts. "I compose operas and various classical pieces."

"I've never quite taken a liking to opera. I went on a school trip once to see the Royal Opera House's production of _Manon_. The story was beautiful, as was the music, but it never 'clicked' with me, I suppose. But it's wonderful that you write music! I love listening to soft piano music," she said enthusiastically. "Do you play many instruments then?"

Erik nodded. "I do, but I much prefer my piano and violin over anything else."

Sophia clapped her hands together. "You should play for me sometime!"

"I don't think I've ever played for anyone before," Erik said more to himself.

"Well, then, a perfect time to start!" Sophia was grinning from ear to ear. A waiter came round to their table and refilled the red wine in each glass and proceeded to take their orders.

"I'll have the lobster salad with mango, please. Erik?"

Erik glanced back at his menu. "The Fricassée de St. Pierre Façon Bouillabaisse." The waiter walked off, but not before looking back at Erik's mask. Sophia must not have noticed, as she picked up the conversation again.

"Yesterday you were saying something about owning a flat in Paris?"

"Yes, I live there when I am not visiting that pesky friend you patched up yesterday."

"Ah, Mr. Khan. How is he? Any better?" she inquired.

"He seemed to be in good spirits as he devoured a steak for dinner last night."

She chuckled. "Hmm, perhaps he passed the stone. That can happen sometimes-the stone is so small that it causes no pain when it is released. So, why did you decide Paris?"

Erik opted not to tell her that Nadir and Antoinette had purchased it for him and the fact that he was born in France. _Stay away from topics that bring up the past. _"I normally send my compositions to the Paris Opera House and sometimes they want me there to organize productions or galas, especially if some of my work is being performed," he said nonchalantly.

"That must be the most amazing job-to work at the Paris Opera! I've only ever seen pictures. It's a gorgeous building!"

"Yes, Garnier did have a sense of grandeur when it came to architecture."

"Who is that?"

Erik arched his eyebrow. "Garnier? Charles Garnier was the architect who designed the Opera House," he said slowly, his ears astounded that she could not know who built one of the most famous and recognizable pieces of architecture in the world.

Sophia let out a slow "Oh", but had no time to say anything else, as their food had arrived. They ate mostly in silence. Sophia's cheeks were still flushed with embarrassment. The bill arrived and Erik took it deftly from the waiter before Sophia could get to it.

"No, please, Erik, I invited you out. I'll pay." She reached an arm over to take the bill, but Erik caught her wrist and swatted it away. "Please just hand it to me."

"I don't think so." He replied, reaching into his pocket for his credit card. Just as Sophia went into her purse to take out her credit card, Erik pulled a waiter over and handed him the bill.

"Erik!"

"Yes?" He looked at her innocently.

"You are quite insufferable." Her cheeks had gone red again and she wore a look of defeat.

"I do my best."

Erik drove Sophia home, which turned out not to be very far from the hospital. "I like to walk to work," she had said. He pulled up in front of her flat and walked her to the door.

"Would you like to come in for coffee?" She asked with a hopeful smile.

"No, thank you. I must get going."

Her front light turned on and illuminated her face. _A beautiful face. No! Curse you for even thinking that she could want you! Besides, you're returning to Paris-there's no time for a woman, even if she did want you._

"Well, I had a wonderful time tonight, thank you. And thank you for the blood donation. You have no idea how much it means to the hospital, and to the person it goes to."

"I think I have an idea." Sophia smiled. She reached up on her toes and kissed Erik softly on the lips. He was stunned. No woman had ever given him a kiss, even his mother! _She would never look at you again if she saw under the mask._ He had never felt a more blissful sensation. It wasn't a peck. Her soft lips had touched his and lingered for a moment before she pulled away.

"Erik? Are you alright?" Sophia looked up at him with a questioning look.

"Y-yes. Thank you. For a good night. Thank you." She reached up again and kissed him, but she kept her lips on his longer. He heard a faint "goodnight Erik" before she kissed his cheek and went inside. Erik stood still by her door and traced his lips where she had kissed him.

He slowly came out of his shock and began walking to his car. As he climbed into his Mercedes, he chanced a look in her front window. And he sped off into the night.

* * *

So, what did you think? I wasn't planning to have the relationship between Erik and Sophia work out-I was actually planning to have the date be a disaster, but it just came out like this.

Le Gavroche _is_ a restaurant in London and the names of the dishes were taken from the official website. And the questions that Sophia asked Erik before donating blood are mandatory questions, and that is how a typical blood donation process works. I recently donated blood for the first time and went off that. And I highly recommend donations! It was such a thrill to do it for the first time and I'm really excited to do it again! Let me know your opinions-I love hearing them!

EdB


	4. Alone

Chapter 3

Present Day

"_You can be mad as a mad dog at the way things went. You could swear, curse the Fates, but when it comes to the end, you have to let go."  
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button_

I feel myself begin to regain consciousness, but I will not open my eyes just yet-I refuse to see reality. I'm not ready to face what has happened just yet. Perhaps if I say it enough, it won't have happened? No, it doesn't work like that, says the voice in the back of my head.

It's in our human nature to play pretend. A married couple acts as though they are happy and content in public, the spitting image of what a "perfect marriage" should be, but inside they could be angry and miserable together. _I _am pretending that this whole thing hasn't happened yet. As children, playing pretend and making believe seems like the ultimate game. We have a home complete with a spouse, children, and even a dog. But the more we age, the more pathetic it becomes. Perhaps that isn't the right word. Piteous? Maybe that works better, but I don't really care right now.

I hear a television softly in the background. BBC. Dad must be in the room. And sure enough, I feel a dip at the end of my bed where he is. I move a hand tentatively over my stomach, where my just noticeable bump would have been. We were just entering the fifth month and in two weeks I would have gone for my second ultrasound to determine the gender. But I didn't need a machine to tell me that-I knew my baby was a girl; one of those instincts mothers have. And I would have called her Galatea, after my mother. My mum, you see, died when I was fifteen. Dad never really recovered after that and he retreated to his violin. Mum kept him sane so to speak.

But now he plays mournful tunes as Orpheus once did when he lost his Eurydice and testing the tear ducts of the gods. It's almost too hard to listen to sometimes. Before Mum died, we used to all go to the park down the road from where we lived, and dad would play lively Swedish folk tunes and I would dance and sing-childishly, mind you, tripping over my own feet. I never inherited the musical gene. My dad, Charles Daae, was originally from a small town in Uppsala, Sweden. When he was younger, his father taught him to play the violin. Needless to say, he excelled. When he was twenty, he came here to London, to further pursue his career in music. That's when he met Mum. The rest, as they say, is history. They fell in love, married, and shortly after, had me.

Nowadays, Dad keeps mostly to himself. Except on Wednesday evenings. On those nights, he goes down to the local theatre to play with a small group of people in an orchestra. Purely for enjoyment; he doesn't care much for the grandeur of large performances anymore. Sometimes on warm summer evenings, they'll even play on the gazebo in the nearby park. I don't mean to brag, but my dad sounds the best out of all of them.

I wonder briefly where Raoul could be. Is it wrong that I don't really care? Raoul de Chagny is my husband of three years. We met as children and played all the time-we were inseparable. As teenagers, we both realized that we fancied each other a bit more than just friends. And we had been dating ever since. Everyone knew we would marry-it was expected. Predictable. That's what our relationship is. We married when we were both twenty-one and purchased a nicely sized home just down the street from Dad. I don't think we considered the financial aspects of marriage until we were swamped with bills. Mortgages, loans to pay back to the university, and monthly bills all caught up with us.

On top of that, Raoul is never at home. Being a business major, he was offered a job, selling god only knows what, but there was a catch, as always. He would have to go wherever they sent him for indefinite periods of time. Sometimes he is gone for two months at a time. And just when I get used to not having him around, he comes back and we argue about the smallest, stupidest, trivial things. And I can't wait for him to leave again. How horrible is that?

He was convinced the baby was going to be a boy. He wanted to name him Alexander. But I knew my baby was a girl and I didn't feel like arguing with him. We painted the nursery a cream color-almost yellow. Whomever invented the idea that green is the gender neutral color must be daft-it makes me feel as though I was going to give birth to some amorphous alien. As I was saying, we had been trying to have a baby since we were married-we wanted to feel like a complete family. But every time was a failure. _I _felt like a failure. And I feel as though I failed my child-I failed her before she had the chance to live.

It's time for me to finally open my eyes. I open my lids slowly. A bright, white light fills them and I snap them shut again. I pray silently that Dad didn't see that. I decide to give it another go and open them again. This time the hospital room comes into focus. A small TV screen rests in the corner and a commercial for Kodak is playing. The walls are white, almost showing an indifference to me.

"Oh! Christine! You're awake!" Dad stood up from the edge of the bed and took my hands in his. His mouth twitches from side to side as if he was going to say something. His eyes are to the floor now and I distinctly notice a single tear roll down his cheek. "You eh…you em…oh god, Christine, you lost her." Oh god, he's said it. I had been dreading that one statement ever since this happened. I had been clinging on to hope and praying this was all some morbid nightmare. But to no avail, of course. Dad begins to sob and a helpless feeling swells inside me. I had been trying so hard to hold the tears back, but they flow freely now.

"They had to do a blood transfusion, Christine. You lost a lot of blood. But they-the doctors-said you should be alright to leave tomorrow afternoon. It'll all be okay, little one." Ah, the other thing I had been dreading. How can it be okay? I just lost my child. How do you pick up from that? It seems like an inappropriate thing to say at a time like this.

And in that moment, everything came back to me. I had been upstairs with Dad finishing up the painting in the nursery. It hurts to even think about that word now. _A nursery_. An empty one that might never be occupied. The buzzer on the stove had gone off for something I was baking. I wanted to impress Dad with my newly acquired cooking skills and I didn't want what I was cooking to burn. _Whatever it was_-I don't remember now. So I ran quickly down the stairs. But tripped. I remember screaming. And blood. There was so much blood. I remember Dad running down the stairs and holding me while he called an ambulance. And then…nothing.

Dad broke me out of my reverie. "I phoned Raoul…to tell him what happened. He said he's getting on the first flight out." Just what I wanted to hear. Shouldn't I be glad, though, that my husband is leaving his job to come home to me? I really am a terrible wife. But there really is nothing left to our relationship.

"Thanks Dad," I replied, devoid of any emotion.

"I uh…I know you both are going through a sort of rough patch right now…and I just want you to know that if you ever need to come back home, the door is always open for you, Christine." I smile gratefully at him; I've always been thankful for his intuitive nature.

"Thank you Dad. That means a lot," I gave him a tiny smile. He leaned forward and wiped the remaining tears from my cheek with his thumb. I looked around the room for the first time and noticed a few bouquets of flowers.

"The neighbors obviously know…most of them came while you were asleep." We both went silent for a while and listened to the news. Some local official had just died and the funeral was being covered live. There is a small orchestra playing inside the church, which happens to be St. Paul's Cathedral.

"Mascagni." I say absently, not realizing what I had said. It had rolled off my lips so naturally.

Dad turns and gives me a quizzical look and arches his eyebrow. "What?"

"Pietro Mascagni." Wait, wait, wait. How do I know this? How could I possibly know that name, but not know who he is? And yet, I feel as though I already know him. Does that make any sense? "The intermezzo from his 'Cavalleria Rusticana'." It felt so natural, yet foreign.

"Christine, how do you know that? I never played any Mascagni for you and I _know_ you've never acquired a liking to classical music." He looked incredulous and stupefied.

"I…em…I've heard it before. Either on the radio or in a movie," I lie quickly. Dad still looks unconvinced, but drops the subject. He turned back to the television and gazed at it longingly.

"The inside of that building always makes my breath catch in my throat. It really confirms that there is some sort of higher power up there and He is watching over us."

"You really think so, do you?" I said a bit more coldly than I intended.

He turned to look at me and smiled softly. "I know you're having your doubts right now, Christine. And I understand. I questioned Him too, when your mother passed. But I counted myself blessed-I still have my beautiful daughter and I had the chance to watch her blossom into a remarkable young woman-I thank Him for that every day. And I thank Him for not taking you away from me. I don't know what I would do if I ever lost you, little one. But in the end, it always comes down to faith. I have my faith, Christine."

I didn't know what to say-or think-for that matter. I was stunned. I knew Dad had been religious before Mum died-we all went to mass on Sundays. But after she passed, he had stopped going for the longest time. I'm not sure whether he began going again, or solely went to pray. Thankfully, I didn't have much time to dwell over this, as my best friend, Meg Griffin, bounced into the room. Literally.

"Oh, Christine! I'm so glad you're ok!" She bent over and pulled me into a hug and several of her golden locks went into my mouth.

"Meg!" My other best mate, Jammes Delacour, walked in and pulled Meg from me. "We talked about this before we came here! I told you exactly not to do that; your presence is overwhelming enough." Jammes looked down at me and I thanked her silently. Meg retreated a few steps and clasped her hands in front of her.

"You guys didn't have to come," I said quietly, more to myself. I actually wish they hadn't come. Jammes, you see, has two young children, a five year-old girl and a seven month-old boy. I couldn't bear to look at anything or anyone that reminded me of my loss. They are, however, my childhood friends, although I've known Meg since we were toddlers, as she used to live a few houses down from me. The three of us were inseparable in primary school, and it's been that way ever since.

They are both uncharacteristically silent; normally I can never get Meg to stop babbling. Jammes, though, has always had a quiet, solemn nature about her. But they are both staring at me with concern and it is becoming a little unnerving.

Dad thankfully breaks the silence. "It was very nice of both of you to come."

"What kind of mates would we be if we didn't?" Jammes said quietly and took my hand.

"Speaking of being mates, I bought you a present." Meg walked back over to the bed and produced a gift bag with tissue paper coming out of the top.

"Could it be a bottle of laundry detergent?" Dad asked, with a slight hint of mocking in his voice. When Meg and I were about eight-years old, she thought it would be a brilliant idea to eat laundry detergent. Her logic was that it would clean our insides, and when it was done, we would burp up bubbles. Dad caught us in the act, and was not very pleased. And he never lets Meg forget it.

"Geez, Mr. Daae, you really need to let that go. We turned out fine."

"That's debatable," Jammes mumbled.

"Yeah, I'm still not convinced the laundry detergent didn't mess us up," I smirked. Meg threw her hands in the air in frustration.

"When will you ever stop mentioning that?"

"When the fiery depths of Hell freeze over, Little Meg," Dad said, chuckling softly. "Little Meg" had been Dad's nickname for Meg ever since diaper days. When Mrs. Griffin was pregnant with her, Dad would always pat her stomach and call her "Little Meg", which supposedly angered Mrs. Griffin, who insisted upon calling Meg her given name, Marguerite. But he would make it up to her by playing his violin, which would stop Meg from kicking for a short while. Or so he told me.

"Well, if you are all going to be like that, then I guess you don't want to see your present," Meg said, in a mock huff. She turned from the bed and crossed her arms.

"Oh, stop being ridiculous," Jammes chided. She picked up the bag and carefully set it in my lap. I picked the tissue paper out carefully and pulled out what appeared to be a book. _A Midsummer Night's Dream_.

"We found another copy at the market and figured you could add it to your collection," Meg said. Her "anger" obviously had disappeared. When I was a child, my mother would always read a part of it to me before I went to bed. Needless to say I fell in love with the story and it's been my mission in life to get a hold of any copy, in any language I can find. I've always been a fan of fairytales. What seven-year old girl wouldn't want to run away to a forest filled with fairies, complete with a king and queen? Plus, the thought of a complicated love that always seemed to work out perfectly excited me to no end.

And it's the one thing I can still connect my mother to.

"Thank you. Both of you." I ran my hand over the cover gently, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. The satyr on the cover looked up at me with an arched brow. _You don't even want to know_, I told it silently.

"We saw it and couldn't resist," Jammes said jovially.

I was still staring at the book. "It's lovely," I breathed softly. I saw Jammes turn to Meg and they both gave a quick nod to each other. I knew instantly that they were giving each other the signal that it was the right time to leave. Subconsciously, I knew that they never intended to stay very long. Who would want to subject themselves to an awkward situation such as this one? But I don't blame them. I knew that if any one of them were in my place, I would not know the right things to say or how to act.

And right then and there, I realized that there wasn't anything anyone could do or say to make me feel better. I realized that, for the first time in my life, I truly was alone.

And what a horrible feeling it is to be alone.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. Again. It's like my teachers don't _want _me to have a life. Huh...I may be on to something...  
I didn't intend to end it there-I actually had a lot more that I was going to write, but after re-reading that paragraph, it seemed like a proper place to end it. I hope I got Meg's character right-I want her to sort of be a foil to Jammes, but without being overly obnoxious. Please review and let me know what you think! There's a nice, big button right at the bottom of the page here.


	5. Memory, All Alone in the Moonlight

Chapter 4

Dad spent the rest of the afternoon with me. I am very grateful to him-without his company, I could have easily sank back into a very depressing mood. We spent most of the time just watching various shows on TV. Mainly those silly reality shows about remodeling homes in a given amount of time or keeping up gardens. Mum used to have a small garden behind our house and Dad has poured much of his time into expanding it. I suppose it's his way of keeping her memory alive, just as I have mine.

I fell asleep sometime after that, and much to my dismay, it wasn't a dreamless one. I found myself walking through an exquisitely decorated Victorian apartment. How I became aware of this knowledge, I have no idea. But, in any case, it seemed to be a parlor. I know I've seen this place before. _But when?_ I don't remember ever being here, but everything looks so familiar. An eighteenth century settee occupied the center of the room. Light poured in from the mullioned windows with the cream colored curtains pushed to the side. The walls were an off ivory cream color, which matched the beige rug with a large fleur de lis printed in the middle.

But what struck me most of all were the last two objects in the room. One of which was a grand piano in the corner of the parlor. It was painted black with gold trimmings around the edges. And in the center of each trimming was a raised relief of Louis XIV depicted as the Sun King. What perturbed me the most was that I had no idea who Louis XIV was or what he did, and how I happened to know he was the "Sun King". Why does this keep happening? How do I know these things that I'm positive I never learned? I feel an intense urge to walk over and play the delicate instrument, but I know for a fact that I cannot play to save my life.

Instead, I walk over to the other object that has caught my interest. A copy, and a very large one at that, of Sandro Botticelli's _The Birth of Venus_. But what is even more peculiar is the fact that it's in the same likeness of the original-tempera on canvas surrounded by an ornate gold frame. _Why is this happening to me?_ I'm not supposed to know _any of this_! I've never read about it. I never learned it. I am not supposed to know that canvas is less stable than wood and egg tempera!

The soft sounds of a piano broke me from my thoughts. _But the piano is right here_. I walked down a narrow corridor and the source of the music grew louder. It sounded on the verge of depressing. Yet, there was so much passion in it. It was almost erotic. Can _music_ be erotic? I feel tears course down my cheek. In all my life, I can't remember ever being moved by any one thing on a scale such as this.

I came to the door where the music seemed to be coming from. I turned the knob and pushed it open slightly. I was surprised when I saw very little light coming into the room. Instinct told me that it was impossible to read the notes in the dark, and yet the music played on without any hesitance. I opened the door further. A cello and violin lay against the wall and other various instruments were placed carefully on shelves.

However, it was the person playing the piano that I held my interest. His back was to me and he-I know for a fact that this person is a man-is clothed in all black. I try to walk into the room and move closer to him, but I feel something pull me back. The room is getting further away from my grasp and the man fades out.

And I woke in a sweat.

My hospital room came back into view. The lights were dimmed but through the window, I could clearly tell it was midday. The room was empty; I really thought Dad would be here when I woke up. But I didn't think about that-my thoughts went back to my dream. If you want to call it a dream. It seemed so real! Perhaps I was reliving a memory? Maybe I was there as a child? But I don't ever recall being in that home. And yet I was able to navigate it as though it were my own.

And the music. It was so powerful! I've never even heard Dad play that passionately. I've never heard so many different emotions in one piece of music. Well, actually, when I normally listen to music, I don't care to listen for emotions. So why do I now? Why do I know all these things about music and art and architecture? I'm not very well cultured in any sense of the word.

"Good morning, love." Dad walked into the room with a cup of coffee, breaking my thoughts. "I turned down the lights for when you woke up-they're ungodly bright." He crossed the room and sat back in the chair. "I was talking to the doctors out there. They said you would be okay to leave this afternoon."

I stared silently at the wall across from my bed. _I could go home_. Why would I want to go to a place that reminds me of everything I lost? I would be left to sit and wallow in my thoughts of how I have a failed marriage and an empty, half finished nursery. But what I was most terrified of was the stain at the bottom of the stairs. I know I'll never be able to enter that house and think of it as a home again.

I looked down at the sheets and twiddled my thumbs. "Dad…do you think…would you mind…if I came to stay with you? I-I can't stay in that house," I said weakly. I felt tears sting my eyes again and I didn't stop them this time. Dad rushed up and gathered me in his arms.

"Oh, Christine." He sat on the bed holding me and rubbing my back. He stayed silent for a time until my crying had ceased. He placed me back among the pillows and pulled the covers up. "Of course you can come home. You never need to ask, little one." He smiled at me and kissed my forehead.

"Thanks Dad," I managed to say once my tears had subsided. My thoughts went back to the strange dream again. I thought carefully about how to approach Dad about this. "Dad, do you know anyone who is talented at the piano? Well…not so much talented as a prodigy, I suppose."

Dad arched his eyebrow. "What is with you and music lately?" He laughed lightly, which made me feel slightly better. "I _do _know many men with talented fingers, but I don't think I would call any of them prodigious, no. May I inquire as to why?"

"I just had a vivid dream. That's all," I said, trying to mask my disappointment. But why am I so bent over trying to find out if this person exists? It was only a dream. He may not even exist at all. _But how tragic would that be if he didn't? I may never hear that music again._

A nurse came knocked on the door and came in. "Excuse me, Mrs. de Chagny? You're free to leave whenever you're ready. Just press the buzzer and we'll come in with a wheelchair for you."

"Wheelchair? No, see, I don't need a wheelchair. You must have the wrong-"

"Christine, don't argue," Dad said firmly. The nurse looked at him with gratitude and left. I grunted unceremoniously and crossed my arms to my chest. "Don't be like that, little one. We all have to accept help once in a while. Besides, it is hospital procedure."

I leaned back into my pillows and looked out the window. "Is it alright if we leave now?"

Dad smiled slightly. "Of course it is." He reached behind the chair and pulled up some clothes. "I picked some clothes up from your house. I didn't think you would want the other ones…"

"Thanks," I said a little darkly. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

"Christine, it's alright. I shouldn't have said anything in the first place." He came over and helped me stand and led me to the small bathroom. "I'll be right here if you need anything."

"It's fine. I just need a minutes." I closed the door and quickly slipped the hospital gown off. I bent over to pull my sweater on and a stabbing pain seared through my abdomen. _As if I haven't suffered enough_. I pushed through the pain and put the rest of my clothes on without bothering to check my hair, which I knew must look like a gigantic brown shrub.

"Ready?" I nodded and Dad got up from the chair and hit the nurses' button. Moments later a nurse walked in with the wheelchair ready. Dad looked over at me and I sat down without putting up a fight. Thankfully it only took five minutes to get out of the wretched place. I stood up as soon as we reached the door and felt another pain in my stomach again. _Don't show you are in any pain. Hide it_. I straightened up and hid any sign of weakness or discomfort. A dull throb persisted, but I kept on walking.

"Do you need to stop anywhere for anything?" Dad asked as he held the car door open for me. I shook my head in the negative and he climbed in on the drivers' side.

And then it hit me. "Wait! Stop at a music shop!"

* * *

Erik slammed his fists down on the piano and let out a yell of frustration. He peered out the window and saw a man using a jackhammer in the middle of the street, along with other various construction workers. _All damn day!_ He had awoken early this morning with one task in mind-to finish his _Don Juan Triumphant_. Erik didn't believe in any sort of higher power, but he knew that if there was one, it had to be cursing his name today. Men had been tearing up the street ever since he set to work on his opera.

"That's it." Erik stood up from the bench violently and caused it to fall over. Without taking a second glance at it, he stormed out of the room. As he was halfway down the corridor, his mobile rang in his pocket.

"What?" He growled into the phone.

"Monsieur Destler?" A man asked with a thick French accent.

"Yes?" His patience was running thin.

"We have finished with the renovations in your flat that you asked for. You may come back any time you wish," the man said quickly, not wanting to stay on the phone any longer than necessary.

"What the bloody hell took so long?"

The man's forehead began to perspirate slightly. "We had a little trouble getting the grand piano inside. But I can assure you that it is exactly where you told us to place it. There was no harm done to it," he said, sounding winded.

"For your sake, it better be. What about the painting?"

"It is over the fire place, just as you said."

"Good. I am on my way back now then. If I find anything unsuitable, I have your number." With that, he snapped the phone shut. Going back to the study, Erik placed his compositions in a travel bag, donned his suit jacket, and headed out the door.

"Where are you off to?" Nadir called from in the sitting room.

"Back to Paris." And he closed the door. The brisk London air hit his face, but he continued on without another thought. He had only gone one block before he heard his name being called. Groaning, he reluctantly turned around. _I swear, if one more person-_

His thoughts were interrupted when he realized that it was Sophia who was calling after him. Erik was very unsure about how to handle his relationship with Sophia. She was a very charming, sweet woman, but she had a tendency to be clingy, which irked Erik to no end. Often, during her breaks at the hospital she would stop by Nadir's flat and ask Erik to accompany her to lunch. He indulged her wishes sometimes, but generally declined, saying that he had work to do. What bothered him more was the fact that she would come back and ask him to dinner and a club or, on nights that weren't terribly chilly, a walk in the park.

Erik had never felt guiltier. He didn't know how to end things with Sophia. He knew he would hurt her, but it had to be done. Why he felt horrible, he had no idea. He had ended the lives of men without so much as a second thought, but he couldn't break up with a woman? That made no sense at all. _Perhaps it is because she is the only one to ever show you any kind of compassion._

"Erik!" Sophia caught up to him and pulled him into a long, open-mouthed kiss. _Even her lips don't feel right on mine_. Erik had begun to notice that Sophia's lips were rather small and thin._ What right have you to choose what kind of lips you prefer? You should feel honored that she kisses you at all._ He couldn't explain it; he sought after full, plump lips, no matter how ridiculous the notion sounded. And her hair. Something about her hair bothered him. It was very dark, almost as dark as his, and absolutely straight, while Erik found himself wishing it were curly and brown. Ah, what he would give to run his hands through a mass of soft, curly tendrils! _Since when do I have a hair preference? And when did I start fantasizing about it?_

"I'm so glad I managed to catch you!" She said breathlessly when the kiss ended. "I don't know if you are busy or not right now, but I was wondering if you would like to go to lunch?"

"Em…Not today, Sophia. I am actually going out of town." He scratched his head wondering how word himself. Before he could go any further, Sophia spoke again.

"What do you mean you're 'going out of town'? Why didn't you tell me?" She looked distraught.

Erik began to perspirate. "It was really last minute. The remodeling on my flat has been finished and I would like to go see it."

"By hell it was last minute!" Erik had never seen her so angry, but deep down he knew he deserved it. He led her on to believe that he felt more toward her than he really did. "You probably planned to go back to Paris and not say a word to me! That's why you've been avoiding me, haven't you? Don't think I haven't noticed, Erik! You've been planning to return to Paris and never come back! That leaving like this 'last minute' was the easiest way to get rid of me!"

Erik was flabbergasted. He underestimated how much fire and spirit Sophia contained! But he wasn't about to correct her in her misjudgments-better she hate him forever than know the truth.

There were tears streaming down her cheeks now. "Fine, Erik. I'm through. If this is what you want, then fine. I really do sincerely hope you live a life of happiness." She turned away and began walking down the street slowly leaving Erik with conflicting tear ducts. What she had said really hit him. _A life of happiness_. He knew it was the exact opposite of what he deserved, especially now. He let a single tear roll down his cheek before walking on toward the train station.

To take his mind off the days events, he took a detour to the music store. There was a new recording of Mendelssohn's Fourth Symphony by the London Symphony Orchestra that he had been meaning to get his hands on.

Erik walked through the automatic doors and immediately walked to the classical section. He found the "M's" and just as he reached for the CD, his hand came into contact with another, sending an electric shock up his arm. He pulled back, startled, and realized that there was a young woman reaching for the same CD.

"Ouch, sorry about that. Did you feel that too?" The young woman asked, rubbing her hand. Erik, still dumbfounded by the encounter, looked at the woman in front of him. Long, curly, chestnut hair. Plump, full, red lips. _I know her from somewhere. But why don't I remember? Surely I would remember a creature this beautiful?_

Erik shook himself out of his thoughts and realized that she was staring just at intently at him. "Sorry, em…looks like we went for the same CD," she blushed. _Good Lord above, even her blush is beautiful!_ "You can go ahead and have it-it looks as though you came here on a mission for it. I can always find another one."

Recovering from the shock, Erik was finally able to speak. "No, no. You have it. I already own a copy of this particular piece." He took the CD and placed it in her hands. He reveled in the fact that he could touch her hands again. _So soft and little! _Erik imagined himself holding one of her soft, delicate hands on a stroll in a park on a sunny afternoon…

"Thank you, that's very kind of you." The woman glanced down at her watch. "I must be going. My Dad," she gestured to the window, "he's waiting outside. Thank you again." She smiled and went to the front of the store to purchase the CD.

"An angel," Erik whispered to himself, as he watched her leave the store. Perhaps there was a god in this cruel world.

* * *

A/N: I'm really sorry about the long wait. I promise I'll never take another Anthropology course for as long as I live! I've heard the word "culture" enough to last me the next four lifetimes. Plus the last two weeks or so I spent with my boyfriend as he graduated from the Marine Corps and came home for ten days. But I'm glad I was able to sit down and finish this (even though I'm supposed to be writing a research paper....)  
Let me know what you think-especially my handling with Sophia. She was beginning to annoy me and I just didn't know what to do with her. Maybe I should have kept her to increase the angst, but in all honesty, I didn't feel like it.  
Anyway, please don't hesitate to hit that nice green button! I'm in a baking mood, and I can't very well eat a plate full of Erik cookies by myself, so I would love to share them with all of you.


	6. Goodbye My Friend

Chapter 5

I feel like I should have stayed behind in the store to talk to that man-it felt _wrong_ almost, to walk away from him. I swear I know him from somewhere, but I just can't seem to remember his name. Maybe I worked with him once, or maybe he works with Raoul. No, I've only met a few people Raoul works with and I wouldn't care to remember them. Perhaps I went to school with him. Arrgggghh, this is frustrating! And I didn't even ask his name! I just stared at him like a git. Although, he was staring quite intently at me too. Maybe he knows me as well? But what are the odds that we both know each other and cannot remember? This makes no sense. He sounded French going by his accent, which makes this situation even more confusing. I don't know anyone from France. Not in this lifetime, at least.

"So are you going to tell me about this mysterious emergency stop, or will you leave me in the dark wondering?" Dad asked as we neared his house. What do I tell him? Should I tell him about my newfound knowledge in the arts that happened over night and that I ran into someone that I'm pretty sure I know, but can't remember in the slightest who he is and how I know him? No, not right now, my mind says. Lie through your teeth, Christine.

"I dunno. I just feel like trying a new genre of music I suppose." Not a total lie if you think about it.

"I see." He went silent for a moment and spoke again. "Well, if you are quite keen on classical music now, I could let you have some CD's if you like."

I smiled a little. "Thanks Dad. That would be nice."

"I could even get you one of those nifty little music players. What do they call them-iPlayers?"

"IPod, Dad?"

"Yes, one of those. I swear companies come up with the silliest names for these gadgets. Anyway, I could get you one of those if you like."

I was moved by his sincerity, but I would never have a need such a thing. "That won't be necessary Dad. I can just play them in my car or in a stereo." We pulled up the drive to Dad's house, where I did my time growing up. There wasn't much to the front yard-a few feet of well-kept grass and then pavement. The back yard was much larger in comparison, and that's where Dad kept his garden. The house was an average sized one and looked identical to the rest on the street. Two floors with the sitting room facing the street-it's a very humble house, I suppose, if I were to classify it.

We walked inside and I was greeted, once again, by the wall of photographs that can be summed up as the Daae family history. Pictures of Mum and Dad as children, professional photographs taken before and during their marriage, my christening, birthdays, and my wedding. I noticed that towards the end of the wall, Dad put up more pictures of Mum by herself, mostly candid shots. One of her in the garden, one of her holding me as a child, and one of her laughing. I let a single tear roll down my cheek before taking a deep breath and moving into the kitchen.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Christine?" Dad asked, coming into the kitchen and setting his keys on the hook on the wall.

"No thank you." I suddenly found myself wishing to be alone. "I think I'll just go upstairs and take a nap. I'm a little tired." I stood up and made my way to the hallway.

"Alright. Shall I wake you for dinner?"

"No, that's alright." He nodded in acquiescence and I climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to where my bedroom was as a child. It hadn't changed in the years that I'd been gone-Dad threatened to rent it out or use it as storage, but I knew he was joking. The same pale pink paint adorned the walls with my bed in the center of the room. A small wooden dollhouse that Dad made when I was about five-years old stood in a corner of the room gathering dust. My bureau stood opposite my bed with pictures of Raoul and I during adolescence, some of me and Mum and some with Dad. A stuffed giraffe that Raoul had won for me at a fair was placed by one of the pictures.

Other than that, most of my belongings and furniture had been moved when I married Raoul. I wonder when he'll be home? I haven't the slightest idea how he will take the news. But I know for certain that our marriage, or lack thereof, must be addressed. No point in going around the bush about it-it must be done. I don't want to spend a lifetime wondering if I could be happier. And being with someone who makes me genuinely happy.

I get under the sheets of my bed, which smell as though Dad had just washed them, and fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.

It is dark out and I am walking-that much I know. Building lights illuminate my steps and I am aware that the streets are cobbled. I look up around me and very clearly see the Eiffel Tower in lights. Paris. I begin to climb a series of steps that seem to go up to the heavens. I keep climbing on though, sometimes two steps at a time. Surprisingly, I am not winded. I reach the top after about five minutes and I am face to face with the Sacré Cœur Basilica. The grand Romanesque-Byzantine building towers over me, and for once, I feel inferior to a higher power. I run a hand deftly over the travertine stone before moving on and walking over to the edge of Montmartre.

There are only a few people out at this hour. Lot's of them are romantic couples kissing in the moonlight and take no notice of me. I move to the edge of the fence and look at the city around me. Breathtaking is the only word for it. The entire city of Paris in lights before my eyes. A light breeze rustles my hair slightly. But wait-where is my hair? It's supposed to be long and curly. Now it is short, not even reaching my shoulders, and sleeked back. I look down and realize I am wearing black men's suit, tie and all. But why? Perhaps the pain medication is warranting these strange dreams. Before I knew it, I was walking away from the fence and everything faded away from my view.

I woke slowly and a little lost but remembered I was in my old bed at Dad's house. I turned over in bed and read the digital clock next to my bed: 4:24 am. I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep the rest of the night, so I got up, dressed, and decided a walk would do me some good. I walked passed Dad's room to be sure he was asleep and heard his deep, consistent breathing before heading downstairs and softly closing the front door behind me. It's still quite chilly out, even though it is the middle of summer and the faintest rays of the sun could be seen on the horizon, but for the most part, it is still considerably dark out.

I set out at a slow walk, not really paying attention to where I was going. There is no traffic and no one or nothing around-only silence. I peer into the houses as I go along and they are all dark inside. Wives sleeping contentedly with their husbands. They have nothing to worry about-they have that feeling of security every night when they lay down to go to sleep. And when the alarm goes off, they greet the day with a cheerful 'good morning', and get ready to go about their day. Perhaps that involves getting their children up, making them breakfast and sending them off to school. They kiss their spouse goodbye and leave for work. It isn't a long kiss, but it is full of love and a promise to be there "until death do you part". She comes home from work and has dinner ready and on the table by the time he gets home and they share a meal together. They settle on the couch after and spend time in each other's embrace until it is time for bed.

And I don't have that.

I don't want to go all my life wondering if I will ever have someone who truly loves me. Don't get me wrong-Raoul loves me, and I love him. But he doesn't love me the way I crave to be loved, nor do I love him that way. We both deserve better.

I stopped walking and found myself in front of my house. Subconsciously, I knew I would end up here. I know it doesn't feel like home anymore, but part of me needed to come here. To grieve? To move on? I don't really know, but I know it's part of the "process". I picked up the spare key from under the loose brick in the stairs that lead up to the front door and walked in.

Everything looked the same as when I was last here. It still smelled like home, but I wouldn't let myself be deceived. The sitting room still looked clean-I remember rearranging the pillows and dusting all the furniture. But there was something different that couldn't be missed. An ominous red stain covered the rug at the bottom of the stairs. It looked slightly brown, as if someone had tried to clean it. It looks almost like spilled wine, various spots darker than others. But I know better. I know what once covered the rug. My blood. Tears began to sting my eyes and I quickly ran up the stairs to get away from it. Blinded by tears, I ran into the nearest room and closed the door.

The nursery. Blast it! I wiped my tears and looked around. An empty crib and stuffed animals stared back at me. My heart began to pound against my chest. _Thump-thump, thump-thump._ I pick up the stuffed teddy bear and hold it close. A pair of pink and blue booties lay on the bureau. _Thump-thump_. A toy box sits in the corner decorated with ducks and bears and letters of the alphabet. _Thump-thump._ I run my hand over the rocking chair by the crib and readjust the blanket on it.

I put my hand to my stomach. "I'm sorry, baby." I could feel my breath catch in my throat and my heart beating wildly against my ribs. "I'm so, so sorry." I can't breathe anymore and my tears flow freely. I bend over and scream at the top of my lungs. As loud and as long as I can go. It is deep, from the pit of my stomach, and full of anguish and sorrow. I scream again, and this time, it feels like my heart will leap from its confines in my chest.

I sink to the floor and hold the teddy bear to me as if it were a lifeline. He looks at me, oblivious to my pain. I pull my legs close to me and sob uncontrollably. "I'm sorry, my baby," I choke on my tears. My cries became louder and I began heaving for air. I am wailing so loudly, I don't hear the door open.

"Christine?" a voice calls out. I am gathered up in a pair of strong arms and they encircle me. "Oh, Christine. It's alright, darling. It's ok, love. My Little Lotte, I am so sorry." The last thing I remember was feeling tears that were not my own on my face before falling asleep in the arms of my husband.

* * *

A knock on the door interrupted Erik at his piano. He had made considerable progress on his opera, but found that he had much trouble concentrating. He simply could not get the woman he met at the music store out of his head. With a dejected sigh, he rose from the piano, knowing that he would not be able to compose anything substantial.

Opening the door to his flat, Erik was greeted with the cheery faces of Nadir and Antoinette. Raising an eyebrow, Erik said, "What are you both doing here? I only just left London a couple of days ago."

"Some gentleman you are," Antoinette scoffed, mockingly. "Aren't you going to let us in? Then we shall explain why we have shown up uninvited at your doorstep." Erik moved to the side and she brushed passed him. Nadir followed and patted his back.

"The remodeling looks great Erik," he said, looking around.

Erik nodded in agreement. "Thank you." He paused, unsure of what to say. He'd never had guests before. "Shall I start some tea? Here, I'll take you to the sitting room." He led them and they took seats on the settee in front of the fireplace.

"Good Lord, Erik, this is exquisite!" Antoinette exclaimed, her eyes wide as saucers as she looked about the room. "Curious choice of work," she pointed to the painting sitting above the fireplace. "Care to explain?"

"Not particularly," he said, albeit a bit coldly. He walked out of the room swiftly and began preparing the tea in the kitchen. He returned five minutes later with a tray and placed it on the table in front of the settee.

"So, you come here for a reason, you were saying?"

"Yes, well, I suppose in afterthought, the reason will probably seem quite trivial to you," Nadir started. "We simply wanted to see how you were doing here and what it looked like, and to take you out to a celebratory dinner of sorts. We've even booked a hotel for the night so we don't impose ourselves upon you."

"That doesn't seem insensible. I would quite like to go out to dinner." _Ask them about the woman! Perhaps you met her through Antoinette?_

"So," Nadir began leisurely, "how is Sophia. I take it she is not here with you."

Erik felt a pang of guilt. He had completely forgotten about her since arriving in Paris. "We have terminated our relationship," he said simply.

"You broke up with her didn't you?" Antoinette asked.

_Damn._ "Yes," he said quietly and received a nasty stare. "Don't think I don't feel guilty for hurting her, because I do! She is a beautiful, wonderful woman, but I could not breathe with her around! She attached herself to me and I did not feel the same. I would be even more of a monster if I led her on to believe so."

They nodded silently as if to say, Perhaps it was for the best. "So, who's the new woman?" Nadir joked and laughed when he saw Erik's eyes grow wide. "Relax Erik, it was only a joke!"

"Well, actually, you see," he began and completely unsure of how to word himself. But he was cut off by Antoinette.

"Erik, please don't tell us you had an affair and that is the reason why you left Sophia."

"No! Of course not! I just told you why I left her! Were you not listening?!"

"I apologize. Please continue."

"Before I left London, I stopped at a music shop to pick a CD for the ride on the train. But as I reached out to get it, so did someone else. A young woman was reaching for it. But it was odd. I felt as if I knew her, but I didn't. Does this make sense?"

"Perhaps you know her from somewhere in your past," Nadir said. "Do you know her name?"

"No, you don't understand. I don't _know_ her. She just looks familiar."

"Maybe she looks like someone you know," Antoinette brooded.

_No, I definitely don't know anyone as beautiful as she._ "I don't think so somehow."

"I know! She was from a past life!" Nadir exclaimed. Antoinette and Erik gave him a curious look.

"It's entirely plausible. I saw it on some talk show a while back…"

"I bet it was _Oprah_," Antoinette mumbled.

"No! But, anyway, maybe you had a revelation and remembered her-"

Erik cut Nadir off, unable to listen to any further theories. "No. Look, I only meant she looked familiar. That's all. Let's just go to dinner and move on." _Just move on. You'll never see her again anyway._

_

* * *

_

"Christine, you _never_ eat Italian," Raoul said, sounding exasperated and confused as the hostess brought them to their table. "Are you sure you feel alright? We can go home if you want to."

I know he is only looking out for my best interests, but it's getting on my nerves. Everyone has their hands on me to make sure I don't break, and quite frankly, it's like being slowly suffocated to death.

"I'm _fine_ Raoul," I stress calmly. "I just had a craving for Italian tonight, that's all. Or maybe I've gone crazy," I said and winked at him. I began glancing at the menu and was rather surprised at myself. I could translate every Italian word on the menu. Maybe I really have gone mad. Shall I just tell myself that the loss of my baby has caused me to go insane? But that still wouldn't explain how I know another language and dream about a man's house that I've never been to.

"Can I get both of you some drinks?" A waiter stood by our table, pen and paper at the ready.

"Errr, yeah, we'll have the-" Raoul started

"Boroli Barolo 1999, please," I said, pointing to the menu.

"A very good choice," the waiter said. Raoul raised his brow at me and his mouth was parted slightly.

"Did you close your eyes and pick one?" he laughed.

I blushed slightly, but smile to make him think that he his still the cause of my blush. Honestly, I don't know why I chose that wine. It is too expensive and I usually drink a dry, white wine. But I knew I needed to act sane tonight to not worry Raoul any further so I could tell him what I have to say.

"Care to tell why you chose this particular wine?"

Erik swirled the dark, red wine under his nose, and took a sip, savoring its sweetness. A smile came to his lips as he recalled first discovering the bottle of luscious wine.

"I found this bottle on a trip to Milan. The Scala was playing one of my operas and the company director invited me to dinner that evening at the Gallia. The food was exquisite-everything was cooked in the Lombard style. Even the atmosphere took my breath away-modern, yet elegant. Anyway, he suggested that I try a bottle of Barolo. I still have not found anything like it to this day. I could taste every flavor that was mixed in-strawberries, chocolate, and a hint of vanilla. I did some reading on it, and the grapes that go into this particular wine are only Nebbiolo grapes from Piedmont. It's a rather hard grape to grow-they only cultivated in the region's clay, limestone, and sandy soil and prefer south-facing hills. It goes perfectly with meats and creamy pastas, which is why I am going to order…"

"The stuffed chicken marsala." Raoul is looking at me, completely mortified. The color has even drained from his face.

"Christine, how do you know the company director of the Scala? You've never been to Italy. And since when are you a wine aficionado?"

Recover Christine. Think of something quickly! So I began to laugh. "Oh, don't you remember? It's from that movie we saw not too long ago. Oh, what's the name of it?"

"Ehh…umm…I don't remember what movie you are talking about Christine," he said slowly.

"Besides, I've been doing a little reading about wine. What else am I supposed to do while you're gone? That's why I sounded like I knew what I was talking about." I smiled big and did that hand wave thing where you look like you are swatting a fly, but people interpret it as 'of course I know what I'm talking about'. This seemed to ease the situation a bit-Raoul looked like he was able to breath properly again.

"Oy, Raoul, mate!" A man around Raoul's age with sandy hair patted his back from behind. I recognize him as one of his sales coworkers, but I have never said more than two words to him. "Congratulations!" he gestured to in my direction. "Say goodbye to sleep and money for the next twenty years! Those little monsters suck you for everything you're worth, but they're a blessing. Truly a blessing." He patted Raoul's back again and motioned for the woman with him to follow him to their table.

Raoul took my hand from across the table. "Are you alright? I'm sorry, I-I couldn't tell anyone," he said quietly.

"It's fine. There was nothing you could have done," I said, sniffing back the tears. I look up at him and he knows instantly what I am going to say. I know he sensed this conversation was eminent as well. "Raoul, we need to-"

"No Christine. Not here. We can't discuss this here." I give him a look, telling him that I won't back down. I don't want to wait any longer. "You have been through so much this week. We both have." He waves his hands in frustration and begins to get up.

"No, Raoul, sit down. We will discuss this now. I don't want to be distracted anymore. I don't want to wait ten years wondering if we could be happier than we are now."

"Christine, I _am_-"

"No Raoul, don't lie to me. I know you aren't. All we ever do is fight anymore when you're home. I want us to be _happy_, in every sense of the word. I don't want to lead a life of 'what if?' every day." I look down at the table and wait for him to argue. I wait for him to lecture me that our marriage can still be saved-we just have to work hard at it. See a counselor. We announced before God to be together until death do us part, and we will honor that vow. But he is still silent. I look up and see tears streaming down his cheeks, and he is nodding his head.

I stand and we both know that we have to leave. We walk to the car and Raoul drives me home in silence. My marriage is over, I keep telling myself, but I have the chance to begin all over again. I have a new beginning lying before me. But a beginning of what, I have no idea.

Raoul takes me to my Dad's house and walks me to the door. There are no words between us-there is no need for them. He takes me in his embrace and we both cry, long and hard. I can feel our tears entwining together and cascading down on my blouse.

I'll always love you, Little Lotte," he said in between sobs. I come to realize that, in my own way, I will always love him too.

"You will always hold a special place in my heart Raoul," I said, pulling apart from him and cupping his cheek in my hand. "The darling boy who saved my scarf from the sea." He kissed my lips fondly and tenderly, but it wasn't one of passion. It was a way of saying goodbye, adieu, to everything we've ever known. Goodbye my lover, goodbye my friend.

He turned to leave, and only after when I saw his car disappear did I run inside straight to my room. I kicked off my shoes and coat and let myself fall on my bed ungracefully. And I sobbed. I cried for all of the memories we shared. For all of our sweet, tender moments. For what could have been. I sobbed until I there was nothing left in me. I let the numbness take over and fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

A/N: Yay! It didn't take a month for an update this time! Free Erik cookies for anyone who can find the James Blunt lyrics I put in there. And a Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate!


	7. Thoughts

**A/N: Etoile du Bolshoi lives! I am indeed alive my dear readers! Most of this chapter was written before Christmas, but right around the holidays I fell rather ill for about a month. I'm still "sick", but I'm a lot better than I was. Then there is the matter of school, which is currently kicking me in the bum-oley. Here's a life lesson for you all: never take two history courses. I haven't really had much time for myself, let alone write. But luckily for you all, I had a burst of inspiration this afternoon and rather than read about the Thirty Years War, I decided to write this instead. It's not my best work, but I hope you please bear with me-it will get better. I apologize if this long wait has caused some of you to abandon the story, but I thank each and every one of you who continue to stick with me and this story.**

**With that said, I hope you all enjoy!**

Chapter 6

"So, what do you plan on doing with your life as a newly freed woman?" I rolled over in my bed and looked at the digital clock. Two minutes past noon. I woke to the sound of my mobile buzzing under my pillow and noticing it was only Jammes, I decided it was safe to answer.

"Is moping in bed for the rest of my life an option?" That 'new found beginning' I had felt the night before disappeared when I woke up. I knew full well that a life without Raoul would be difficult at first, but I didn't expect to wake up to the feeling that I had maybe made a mistake. The feeling that goes something like 'What am I going to do when ten years go by and I'm still living in my dad's house and I still have the job that makes me wonder why I get up every morning?'

"Unfortunately, no. I thought you were…oh, how does that saying go…take the bull by the horns?"

"I fell off the bull."

I heard her let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Look hun, don't kid yourself. Things are going to be tough for a while. But what makes you different from everyone else is whether or not you decide to greet the sunshine and make the most of your day or sink back into the shadows and become Miss Havisham. And I really don't have the money or the time to get Jerry Springer's arse all the way over here just to bulldoze your house in order to get you out of your room."

Ah, that's why I love Jammes so dearly. She doesn't beat around the bush when she has something to say. And I must say, she is always the one to put me in my place. Or at the very least, she puts things into perspective. I only get this one life after all-it makes no promises for what's to come; it is what it is. And I know with every fiber of my being that Mum is watching over me and keeping my baby safe until it's my time to see them both again. She would want what's best for me.

"So," she concluded, "You, Meg, and I are going out for drinks tonight. And if you don't show up at Barney's by eight, Meg and I will personally come to your house and drag you out by force. So start getting ready and throw on your Marc Jacobs heels and that denim mini skirt you haven't worn in five years. It makes your bum look nice and round."

"Yes ma'am." There was a pause and judging from the background noise, Jammes was in the middle of driving.

"Now-," her five-year old daughter, Emma, cut her off. "We're almost there, sweets. Mummy can't drive any faster." She said quietly into the phone, "Ugh, I'm on my way to take Emma and the little brat from next door to their gymnastics lesson. I swear, the child could make a nun curse. She gets her attitude from her bitch of a mother-,"

"I'm telling my mummy you said the B-word!" A shrill girls' voice shouted from what I assumed to be the backseat.

"You can tell your mummy everything I say, then maybe I'll be fired as my job as your drive around nanny." I giggled quietly to myself, attempting to conceal it by tilting the phone away from my head. "I'll talk to you later Christine. Knowing my luck, I'll get pulled over for being on the phone. Do you think the police take snotty children as a means to pay for tickets? No, probably not. I'll try anyway though. Talk to you later."

"Bye Jammes." There was a click on the other end and I set the phone down.

* * *

I knew better than to disobey Jammes, and was promptly ready by seven thirty. I didn't wear the mini skirt as she ordered, however; I don't exactly feel ready to allure anyone of the opposite sex just yet. Though I did put the Marc Jacobs pumps on that I wore as a bridesmaid in Jammes' wedding.

I was just getting my coat on when there was a knock on the front door.

"Oh good, you're ready. I really thought I was going to have to pull you along kicking and screaming." I nodded dumbly and looked past Jammes-a stretch limousine was pulled up along side the road.

"You really didn't think we were going to drive my space ship or Meg's tiny loon mobile did you? Let's go, I have a feeling Meg already drank half the bottle of champagne."

"Alright, let me just tell my Dad I'm leaving," I moved back a bit, but Jammes put her arm around me and ushered me out the door.

"Not necessary. I've already informed him that we would be kidnapping you and having a night of much needed girl fun."

I climbed into the limo, which I am still unsure was completely necessary-Barney's is only a fifteen minute walk from my house. We would be there in five minutes. It was a nice thought though and I made a mental note to thank Jammes later for her kindness. Meg was lounging on the long seat with a glass of champagne already in hand.

"That was faster than I thought. I was certain Jammes would have to knock you unconscious." Am I really that antisocial?

Jammes began pouring more champagne and handed a glass to me. "Ladies, a toast to the new Christine and her newly single life, which starts tonight. May you find many a man to warm your bed."

"Jammes!" She stuck her tongue out at me and raised her glass, to which Meg and I followed suit.

"Speaking of men warming your bed, why aren't you wearing that mini skirt? You've got to display that red bottom of yours if you want a decent man. Unless you prefer the old ones."

"I'm just out for drinks tonight. A man crawling up my skirt is the last thing I want."

"Christine, I am settled down with one man for the rest of my life with two children. I need some entertainment and I can't live through Meg; she's a bit too wild for my tastes. But you, on the other hand, are getting a fresh start, and I would love nothing more than to live vicariously through you."

I was at a loss for words, so I silently drank the rest of my champagne. I felt the limo come to a stop and the driver came round and opened the door.

"Let's hurry up. It's already been a long week and I need to unwind," Meg said, and she trudged into the bar. We found a lone table in the corner of the bar and ordered a round of drinks.

"What's got you down today Meggy?" Jammes asked, knowing full well that Meg despised being called that, and sure enough, she was met with a death stare.

"Firstly, call me that again and they won't find your body in the Thames," she said sternly. "Second, I want to personally strangle the director of the Royal Opera House." Meg, having been a dancer all her life and being trained at the Royal Ballet School, was immediately accepted into the Royal Ballet and is now a soloist in the corps de ballet.

"Why?" I asked, trying to get her spirits up, as Jammes was doing a nice job failing at it. "I thought you landed a good spot in the new production?" _La Bayadere_, that's what it's called. I'm surprised I even know the name. I became tongue tied when she first told me the name last month.

"I do in the first act. But Madame Giry put me put me in the lead of twenty other girls for the opening scene of the second act. No, she couldn't put me in the pas de trois with Arlene and Michelle; she gave that spot to Natalia. She can't do triple pirouette to save her life. Now I have to do fifty-two arabesques in succession down the stage, but that isn't the problem. It's the fact that whenever someone makes a mistake, Madame Giry," she waved her hands in a frustrated fashion and donned a French accent, "makes us begin from the top. And let me tell you, that Melanie Dolber has the biggest basoomas out of all of us and they weigh her down. The other day she lost her balance during an arabesque because of them and she went right over."

I'll admit, I did laugh a little. It felt good. I expected that when Jammes told me we were going out tonight, all they were going to do was ask about me, so I'm grateful the spotlight isn't on me.

"Couldn't you have talked to this Madame Giry about switching your position with Natalia's? I'm sure if you made the argument that you are the better dancer, she would have given you the spot," Christine tried to rationalise, knowing nothing of ballet.

"Madame Giry would stare daggers at me until they actually came out of her eyes and plunged through my heart. No one questions what she says. She even insists the we all call her 'Madame' just because she is from Paris and she's still stuck in the nineteenth century. Thank God she's been back in Paris the past couple days. I wish she would just stay there. I don't know why on earth the director of the Opera House hired her. She's a loon!"

"Sorry dearest," Jammes patted her shoulder and turned in her chair. "Oy, waiter! Another round of drinks over here!"

* * *

Erik took another swig of brandy and refilled his glass. He had once again attempted to compose the ending of his Don Juan Triumphant, but it seemed a higher power condemned him to lose all amounts of inspiration he previously had. For hours he banged away at the piano, but composed nothing of substance.

As this was the last night Nadir and Antoinette would be in Paris, he mused it would be a better idea to have their company than waste away in his music room. It was nearing half past ten when Antoinette announced she would return to the hotel to rest for the trip back to London, and at present, Nadir was sitting lazily on the settee in the parlour smoking a cigar.

"Any progress on that masterpiece of yours?"

Erik growled and finished the rest of his brandy in one gulp. "I'll take that as a 'no' then." He paused for a moment, contemplating his next question so as to not further anger his masked friend. "Do you plan on selling it to the Opera House so it can be made into a production?"

"No, this one is too special for that. There will never be any singer good enough for the standards I hold for this particular piece. _Don Juan_ shall come with me to my grave," he said grimly and moved onto a bottle of whisky. He downed the glass he poured, savoring the way it burned as it went down his throat.

* * *

I winced as the tequila seared the back of my throat on the way down, followed by a feeling of weightlessness.

"Don't tell me you can't handle just a tequila sunrise?" Jammes cocked her eyebrow at me. "We've only just begun."

"I dunno…I'm feeling one sheet to the wind already." I turned and looked at Meg. It didn't take long for her to become completely intoxicated and she stumbled her way to the dance floor and was currently grinding against a random male she had found. How is it that I've only had a couple of drinks and I'm already feeling woozy? I didn't even drink them that fast! And why did it burn? Normally I can drink tequila like it's orange juice. Did my miscarriage affect my liver? I need to stop thinking…

"Christine…hello? Earth to Christine!" I snapped out of my pensive state as Jammes waved her hand in front of my face. "You really aren't smashed yet, are you?"

"No," I said, albeit, a bit gravely.

"Are you feeling ok? Normally you're a very happy drunk. I'll slow down the rounds so you don't get overwhelmed this time." She patted my hand and giggled.

"Jammes?" I waited until she looked at me so I knew I had her attention. "Do you ever feel like you know someone but you don't?"

She gulped down the rest of her Guinness before slurring, "Christine, it's called getting old. I run into people I went to school with and I can't remember ever knowing them at all. The alcohol probably doesn't do much in the way of helping either." She hiccoughed and laughed. I knew it was useless talking to her at this point, but I needed to get this off my chest.

She opened another can of Guinness and I continued. "No, you don't get it. When I left the hospital, I stopped at a music shop to pick up a CD that I wanted. But as I went for it, so did someone else. And when our hands met, I felt this electric current go through me. And when I looked at him, I just felt like I knew him. I don't even know his name for Christ's sake! And his voice! It's amazing! He only said a few words to me, but he has the most beautiful voice I've ever heard!"

"You want to shag his brains out don't you?!" She slammed her fists down on the table.

Why I kept prattling on, I have no idea. "No! Jammes, I just said I don't know him!"

"You just went on like a loon about how you did know him!"

"I said I _don't _know him, but I feel like I _do_!" I knew I shouldn't have brought this up now.

"Well then you should get to know him better by shagging him!" Her eyes went wide and I thought they were going to pop out of her head. I decided it was for the best not to tell her about the dreams.

* * *

He couldn't sleep. It always evaded him somehow. Instead, he lay in bed, fantasizing about how it would feel to have _her _in his arms as he slept. Or even lying on top of him with her chocolate curls spilling over his chest. He would never have trouble sleeping again!

He didn't even know her and was already thinking about her in his bed! _I am a fool. To think someone as beautiful as she could ever want someone so hideous. Not that I'll ever see her again. But one smile from her lush lips or one look from her big, blue eyes, and I would be her devoted slave._

"Enough of this," he said aloud. Erik jumped up from his silky black sheets and grabbed the bottle of brandy he shared with Nadir that evening. Unscrewing the top, he guzzled down the rest of the bottle, enjoying the fiery feeling it created and let sleep take him.

* * *

I felt a wave of fire rush down my throat in settle into the pit of my stomach. It constricted tightly, then opened again, and the contents somersaulted. My stomach dropped and I knew what was coming. Running from the table as quickly as possible, I retched the contents of my stomach as soon as I reached the restroom. What on earth had caused _that_? I sat beside the toilet in deep thought. I'd only had a few drinks and I didn't drink them in rapid succession.

Deciding anywhere was better than a dingy restroom floor, I gathered myself together and left. A young girl came in, she couldn't have been any older than sixteen, and looked at me as if I still had vomit on my face. _If only you knew_.

I walked by the table and saw that Jammes had passed out, her head on the table. Meg was…only God knows where. I shook Jammes a bit and she stirred with a "Whaa…?" I lifted her up under my arm to support her legs and hailed a cab on the corner. I had the urge to vomit again, but repressed it as I helped Jammes into the cab and told the driver the directions to her house. I made sure she was safely inside before telling the driver to take me home.

I let my thoughts wander. Why am I so changed? What's causing all these surreal dreams? Why do I know so much about wine and art? Why do I suddenly have an appreciation for music? Did God intend for all this to happen? Was I supposed to lose my baby and my marriage? Is it justified somehow? Am I deserving of it?

"Hey! Lady! You gonna pay me or what?" My eyes snapped over to the cab driver. He was looking angrily back at me. I felt sorry for him almost. Who could want a job like this? He wore a baseball cap backwards and I saw a haggardness beneath his wrinkled gray eyes. "We've been sittin' here for two minutes now! The fare comes to £17.56." I dug through my purse, gave him £20, and thanked him before making my way inside.

My last thoughts before sleep claimed me were of _him_.

* * *

**A/N: If I didn't write it well enough (it's current;y 11:25 pm and I'm laying in bed typing, so my thoughts might sound clear to me but could really sound like garbage), Christine was affected by Erik's drinking. I was originally going to write Erik getting drunk with Nadir, which would in turn make Christine intoxicated, but that would be horribly OOC and I feel blasphemous for even thinking it. Like I said, I'm not overly impressed with this chapter, so I tried to make up for it by adding some humor. On a more postitive note, I only have a few more weeks of school, then hopefully chapters will come out more often.**

**EdB**


	8. Dreams

Chapter 7

I slept restlessly again. Except this time, my dream wasn't a narrative. I was still in someone else's _body_ for lack of better words, but this time I saw flashing images that came and went before I had the chance to think about them. A tall woman with dark, curly hair. Almost black. Screaming. Shouting. Doors Slamming. Playing the piano. That song sounds familiar.

A street in Paris again. Crowds. Whispering. A tall building at the end of a long road. Heads carved on the façade that I don't get a second chance to look at. High, double doors creaking open. Stone floors and candle lit walls. A grand staircase. A stage. A painted ceiling with an ornate chandelier as its centrepiece. Water dripping. Darkness. A lake. Candles.

I felt my heart nearly beat out of my chest as I woke in a sweat. I fumbled to get my body untangled from the sheets and reached under my pillow for my phone. With trembling fingers, I dialled the only number that came to my mind.

"Hello?" A groggy Raoul answered. "Christine, are you all right? It's two in the morning."

"Err, I know. Sorry."

"What are you doing up?" He asked slowly, trying to adjust to the fact that his newly ex-wife was calling him at such an odd hour.

"I'm fine I suppose, but I just had this dream, and I couldn't think of anyone else to call. I don't know if I would call it a dream though. I only saw snippets of things. And places and sounds," I rambled, but caught myself. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "La douleur est faiblesse laissant du corps."

"Excuse me?" Raoul asked tiredly.

"What?"

"Did you just speak French?"

I actually had to think about it for a minute. "Yes, yes I suppose I did."

"So you are a wine connoisseur and you speak French now?"

"No. I mean, yes. I… I don't know." I stumbled for words. Think think think. "I heard it on the television today- "

"It's fine Christine. You don't have to explain," he said quietly.

"It means 'Pain is weakness leaving the body.'" I don't know what came over me to tell him. If anything, it will make him think I am more of a lunatic.

"Right. Thanks then." He paused a moment and I could tell he was trying to figure out what he wanted to say so he could put it in delicate terms. "You're absolutely sure you're okay, Christine?"

"I'm perfect, Raoul. Just perfect."

"Umm, all right then," he said, completely unconvinced. "I'm going back to sleep. Good night Christine."

"Night," I said quietly, before dissolving into tears.

* * *

His palms began to sweat as he held the phone up to his ear._ Why are you doing this? She most likely hates you for how you handled things._ But he had to know.

"Hello," a somewhat irritated voice answered.

"Sophia, hi. It's Erik." _Dammit, since when do females make you nervous?_

There was silence on the other end before Sophia responded. "What is it you want, Erik? I'm a little busy at the moment," she said sharply.

_Milk it._ He cleared his throat and continued."I wanted to apologise for the way I ended things between us. I acted harsh and cold-hearted, and it isn't what you deserved."

"And that's all you called for? Is to apologise?" She said with a hint of distrust.

"I actually had a question for you."

"Okay…" she said slowly.

"Is there any possible way you could tell me who received my blood?"

Erik heard a soft giggle on the other end of the phone. "No, silly. That's the whole point of donating. It's _supposed _to be anonymous."

He was getting frustrated, and quickly. "But surely there is someone who knows! It has to be on hospital records somewhere."

"Of course there are. Everything has to be documented-it's the law. But- "

"Yes, there's always a 'but'," Erik grumbled.

"It isn't possible for you to find out who was on the receiving end of your donation. That sort of documentation would be illegal to release. And besides, it's not as if the recipient actually received_ your _blood. The components-red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets-were all separated."

"Yes, yes, I know all of that already!"

"Then why do you want to know so badly?"

"Because is it so wrong of me to want to know who I helped? And if I did help someone at all, I'd want to know how they are. Never mind, it doesn't matter. I just sound like a rambling fool."

"It's okay, I already think you're insane," Sophia said, smiling into the phone. A low chuckle escaped his lips. "Now go on, what else were you going to say?"

"I've never told this to anyone yet, so please bear with me," he began slowly. "I feel… different ever since I donated. And at first, I acted somewhat arrogant, as if the recipient should be indebted to me, but that's passed. I feel like I've given something special away."

"Blood is precious Erik. Donors are needed all the time."

"No, look, you don't understand. It's like there's someone walking the streets with something inside them that came from me, and now I'm missing part of me."

"Your body replaces the blood within twenty-four hours," she said simply.

"Damn it all! Stop thinking like a doctor for once!" Erik yelled into the phone. He rubbed the sweat off his brow and took a deep breath. "I know I sound insane right now, but I feel like I've given a piece of myself away. And now someone feels complete because of it and I'm missing something…. And I only want to know who that someone is."

"I could send someone to fetch the blood back for you," she laughed at her own joke.

"Remind me to never have an in-depth psychological conversation with you again," he said seriously.

Her laughter died down. "I'm sorry Erik, but that's the first time I've heard someone blame a blood donation for how they were feeling." There was a silence before she spoke up again. "I should be going. I'm being paged."

"Right, as should I." As he went to hang up, he heard her speak into the phone again.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"It was… nice talking to you again." And she hung up, leaving Erik even more confused.

* * *

I walked into the noisy gym and followed the smell of chlorine until I found the pool. I had told Jammes over the phone a few days ago that I would meet her and Meg at the pool for one of Emma's swim lessons. Though I was starting to regret it. I had only just started leaving the house during the day and constantly ran into people that I knew, but hadn't seen since before the accident. I suppose I was hoping that staying at Dad's house was magically going to heal me, but I'd been proved wrong there. I had to go through all of the emotions over and over again, which was making me mentally and physically exhausted.

I found my way to the bleachers overlooking the pool and saw Meg and Jammes waving at me. They said their usual greetings and patted me on the back as I sat down between them. I immediately noticed seven month-old Noah fast asleep in his stroller and quickly looked away.

I turned to Meg and asked, "How's the production coming?"

"Tiring," she sighed dramatically. "We do the same dances twenty-some odd times a day. I've been dancing eighteen years, and it's still the same thing day after day. Warm up, practice, rehearse." I envy her.

"So have you changed a light bulb yet?" Jammes asked with a smirk.

"You know, I don't think that joke has ever been funny. At least I don't have to change and wipe shitty asses all day."

"I am a mother. I am doing my responsibilities of raising them to succeed and live and function as proper human beings for when I am no longer there to support them."

"As you mash their peas and carrots," Meg said quietly.

"Excuse my, but my point is merely that the one word 'mother' implies a _cornucopia_, if you will, of different responsibilities and duties. And if I were doing what I do at the Opera House, I could choreograph an entire ballet!"

"I'm just saying I like to wipe my own bum." They both let out a long breath and sat up as a long line of children emerged from the changing rooms, complete with life jackets with the instructor, a male in his late twenties, early thirties, leading them into the pool.

"All right everyone. We're going to begin with backstrokes today. Line up alongside the wall of the pool, and when I blow my whistle, group one is going to back stroke to the other side of the pool. Does everyone remember their group number?" Jammes and Meg laughed as some of the children raised their hands and said "no."

"So Christine, how has everything been the past few weeks? Did your hangover cure up nicely?"

"Jammes, you know I wasn't drunk."

"Again, I'm trying to live vicariously through you. Humor me here."

"Oh shut up about that bloody bar," Meg said moodily. "She didn't come here to bullshit about that when it happened two weeks ago."

"You're just in a huff because you didn't get off with anyone." This is how the two of them are all the time; it's how they've always bonded, which would seem the opposite to anyone else.

"Actually, there is something I need to tell you guys about." Whether they send me to the nutter house afterward is another matter entirely.

Jammes took my hand and smiled. "That's what we're here for, love." It took me a minute to grasp the fact that her attitude and demeanor can change in the blink of an eye.

"I keep having these strange dreams. But that's the thing. They're just pieces of dreams. I've been in someone else's body each time. I'm pretty sure it's a man. I couldn't tell at first because I was in a child's body, but it's like I'm living his entire life. I was in his childhood house. There was always a tall, dark-haired, angry woman. Then the location changed to somewhere in the Middle East. Iran, Iraq, or someplace like that. The only recurring thing from those dreams was this older Middle Eastern guy. It was as if he was a friend or something, I'm not sure. Now it's changed again, and I'm in Paris.

"On top of that, I don't know if you remember this Jammes, but there was that guy I told you I met at the music shop. The one that I feel like I know, but I don't? I can't stop thinking about him! Where do I know him from?" I stopped speaking for a minute, and they were both looking at me with concern.

"Oh, but that's not all. I know all about wine now. You can ask me anything about art or architecture, and I may answer you in another language. For example, I know that the _Mona Lisa_, that painting we all drew the moustache on in school, is really a portrait of Lisa Gherardini, wife of Francesco del Giocondo, which is why it is referred to as La Giaconda."

They tried to cover their dumbfounded looks but I wasn't fooled. "Perhaps without the stress of Raoul and the divorce and all, you've been able to set your mind to different things," Meg offered.

"Speaking of ol' Raoul, how's everything in that department? Ben said he saw him down at some bar and stopped to chat with him for a while," Jammes said, changing the subject. "I hope that doesn't upset you." Ben, Jammes' husband, and Raoul had always been good friends.

"It's fine. It isn't like I can make them stop being friends just because our marriage is over."

"He told Ben he's still a little upset because the marriage didn't work out, and you know… the, uh…"

"Baby. You can say it. It's not like I'll break into a million pieces," I unintentionally snapped, but Jammes brushed it off.

"Ben said Raoul will be going to Hong Kong next week. He's not sure how long, and he said you're selling the house."

"There's no point in keeping it. We bought it, and neither of us wants to be alone there."

"So, you're going to keep living with you're dad?"

"Yeah, until I find an apartment or something. He's good company, but I'll eventually buy a place of my own once the house is sold."

Jammes smiled. "We only want what's best for you Christine. We all want you to be happy again." She pulled me in sideways for a hug while Meg patted my head.

They didn't say anything else after that, not that I can blame them. I'm quite thankful they didn't call me a basket case out loud; I know they were thinking it. We sat contented for a while, watching all of the children get out of the pool for free time. Many, Emma among them, took to holding hands and jumping in the pool. The male instructor was standing along the edge watching for any horseplay. Emma came out of the pool and stood behind the instructor, looked at her friends who nodded their heads, and pushed him belly first into the pool.

Meg howled with laughter while Jammes looked horrified. "Shit," she said to herself. "Christine, can you please just watch Noah for a moment?" She didn't wait for an answer before running to the edge of the pool yelling, "Emma! You _do not_ push your coach in the pool!"

I glanced over at Noah, who must have woken sometime after I got here. He immediately started whimpering and tears were forming in his blue eyes.

"Oh Lord, I hope he doesn't start screaming. Do have any idea what kind of noise that'll make in a place like this?" Meg asked, crossing her arms and looking down into the stroller.

With trembling hands I went to undo the safety straps. My forehead and hands instantly began to sweat, thus making it more difficult to undo the clasps. I could feel my heart ready to burst out of my chest. Noah then began flailing his arms and legs and his whimpers turned to loud cries. I felt the eyes of every judgemental mother who would know exactly what to do in this situation, burning into my back.

"Does he need a boob or something? Let him have yours, just make him stop crying," Meg yelled as she covered her ears with her hands as Noah's cries echoed throughout the entire room.

I finally managed to unhook the clasp on the stroller straps. Noah looked up at me with his tear-filled eyes, begging to be picked up. But I couldn't do it. I was frozen. I just can't do it. With the sounds of Noah, Jammes, the other mothers on the bleachers, and the splashing of the children in the pool, I turned and left, never looking behind me.

* * *

**A/N: Ok, so I lied when I said more chapters would be out when summer started; I forgot how busy I still am. I do sincerely apologize from the bottomosity of my heart. Big thanks to Erik's Song for the endless bounds of support in everything and broadwaygirl818 for some much needed motivation and advice (oh, and PS, the singing will definitely come soon!). **


	9. Time

Chapter 8

I couldn't help myself when I left the pool to drive by my old house. I was still in that melancholy mood and felt the need to pity myself even more. The driveway was empty and I wondered where Raoul was staying during this whole mess of things. I never asked when we spoke on the phone and he hadn't brought it up. Our conversations these days were usually brief, especially following that night I called him about my dream. The phone calls began with words of affection. We'd say things like "Remember the time when…?" or "Didn't you love it when…?"

Recently the calls were becoming more serious. He was asking why my lawyer hadn't contacted his and a whole bunch of legal nonsense that I could really care less about. The one thing that really set me off was when he said that his brother Phil found out his wife was pregnant and was taking all of the baby items we purchased. Crib, toys, and all. All I remember was yelling that Phil was an arrogant asshole and should go buy his own shit. When we hung up, I threw the phone at the wall as hard as I could and it made a slight dent. Dad heard it and came running in only to see me drowning in my own tears. He took me in his arms and rocked me back and forth, but was silent. Nothing could be said.

Raoul called one last time to tell me he would soon be leaving for Hong Kong, then would be in Milan for a few weeks. He asked if he could have the toaster. I obliged him and wished him a good trip and that was that.

I pulled into the driveway of our house, but didn't dare go inside. The memory of what happened last time nearly sent me running, but I sat contented in the driveway inside my car. I closed my eyes and replayed some of my fondest memories with Raoul. The day we met when he ran after my scarf into the ocean. We were inseparable after that. The day he first kissed me. We were fifteen-years old and my dad was picking me up from school. Raoul ran up to me all out of breath and gave me a quick kiss on the lips and ran away again. Then our wedding day when he pretended to get lost under my gown, waving his arms about as he went to retrieve my garter.

Enough, I thought.

Having all I could take, I left the house and drove back to Dad's.

* * *

Rome. I was in Rome this time. My body felt younger. Though I sensed I was still quite tall, I knew that by the way I was moving that I was in early adolescence. St. Peter's Basilica towered before me in all of its magnificence and glory, but I turned and walked in the other direction. It was dark. Nothing new there; it was always dark. Just like the night in Paris.

It's daylight now. I'm standing in the countryside on a construction site with Rome in the distance. Workers completing a roof on an elaborate stone mansion. A young, beautiful girl no older than I. She approaches me shyly and teases me by sticking her tongue out. She giggles and pulls me with her to a nearby tree. I try to pull away, but she asks me something that I cannot hear. She pouts adorably and stomps her foot. She asks the same question again and I shake my head. She is getting frustrated. I begin to walk away, but she grabs me and pulls something off my face. Her face is contorted in horror before she screams and runs away. To the house under construction. Where the roof begins to wobble, and it crumbles. She is dead.

I made my way downstairs the next morning thinking about what I had seen in my dream. Why had that girl looked so terrified when she looked at me? More importantly, what in the world did she take off my _face_?

"Well there's Sleeping Beauty," Dad calls from the kitchen. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up. I made sausage and eggs." He tilted the frying pan up to show me as I entered the kitchen.

"What time is it?" I asked, my voice hoarse with sleep.

"Nearly eleven. I was going to wake you then so you could eat." He looked at me closer. "Jesus Christine, you don't look well. Did you sleep at all?"

I walked back out to the hallway and looked at my reflection in the mirror. My skin was paler than normal and dark circles surrounded my eyes. My face overall looked emaciated and gaunt. I almost didn't recognize myself.

"I'm not sure," I said, returning to the kitchen.

"The sausage and eggs are almost done, so sit down and eat. You look like you haven't had a decent meal in a while."

I went to the cupboard to get two plates when I noticed a bottle of pills hiding behind the stack of plates. I took it out. They were Dad's high blood pressure pills.

"Dad, have you been taking these pills?" He made a grunting sound with his throat and started putting the sausage and eggs on the plates. "Dad, answer me."

"I take them every once in a while, yes…"

I looked at him sternly. "That's not good enough. Mum would have your head for this."

"I know, but-"

"No! No 'buts' this time. This is serious, Dad. What would Mum say if she knew that you were being careless about your health? Practically asking for a heart attack and going to the grave early?"

"It's not like that, love. My blood pressure has come down a lot since I started those pills."

"That's not the point. You're supposed to take them everyday until your doctor says you can stop. Speaking of your doctor, I'm calling her."

"What? No, Christine, don't do that! If your mother won't have my head, this lady will! She's a bloody lion, she is!"

I showed no remorse. I picked up the phone and dialled the emergency number that I had memorized for so many years.

"Hello?" I heard on the other end of the line, but it definitely wasn't Dad's doctor. It was a man. With a Middle Eastern accent. "Antoinette, is that you?"

"Uh…" Had I just called the Middle East? Dad is looking at me with imploring eyes, but I continue on. "Hello?"

"Oh, I apologize. I thought I recognized the number and thought you were someone else."

"It's all right. I was looking for…" Dad is mouthing the word "please."

"Tickets to the show?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Em… what show?"

"I'm sorry, the Royal Opera House. I'm close friends with a woman who works there and sometimes her close friends call this number to get tickets."

"Oh, sorry." I feel so exhausted all of a sudden. "Your voice seems very familiar, but I can't place it." I hear Dad exhale.

"My name is Nadir. But you called me, my dear, remember?"

I try and dig through my memory of where I could have come across a Middle Eastern man named Nadir. I close my eyes and remember. A little boy no older than four, laying in a bed. He was sickly looking with a pale face and painfully thin body. I was standing tall over him watching his face light up over playing with a toy train set. But there was something wrong with the way his arms were moving. They wouldn't stop shaking and his little hands couldn't grip the train. The same Middle Eastern man I had seen in previous dreams was sitting by his bedside, sobbing. His son.

The boy began choking suddenly. The man instantly jumped up and roughly patted the child's back and chest, and then turned and nodded to me with tears in his eyes. I produced a bottle with a clear liquid and handed it to the man, who helped his son drink all the contents of the bottle. His choking subsided, and he soon fell asleep.

The only thing I remember happening in the dream after that point was a funeral with a tiny, white marble casket being lowered into the ground. I remember myself silently crying alongside the boy's father. Somewhere in the distance, a bell was chiming. Once the casket was completely lowered, the man left my side and walked out of the graveyard.

"Hello?" A voice brought me back from my reverie. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here," I said quietly.

"Who are you?" He asked sternly.

"Christine," I still whispered. "I'm terribly sorry, Nadir. I must have called the wrong number. Do you know where I've called?"

"London, and going by your accent, you haven't dialled very far. Perhaps our lines got crossed. I was just making a call myself. How odd."

"This is going to sound weird, but are you from the Middle East?" I to chance it and take advantage of the opportunity.

He chuckled into the phone. "I am indeed, but I have been living in London for quite some time. Ever since my son died, but that was many years ago."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." My heart reached out to him then. I can feel the same pain you feel, I wanted to tell him.

"No need to be sorry, dear girl. Time heals all wounds. Each day gets easier." Time heals all, but how long would it take for my wounds to be sealed? Would they ever seal completely?

"I'll keep that in mind." A pause. "I'm sorry to have taken up your time. I'm sure you were calling someone important."

"Everyone is important, Christine. Remember that. I may not know you, but you hold just as much importance in the world as I or anyone else. It was lovely chatting with you Christine. Perhaps someday our paths will cross again."

"Nice talking to you too, Nadir. Goodbye." I hit the "End call" button and put it down on the table.

Dad followed me into the kitchen with his hand over his heart. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Christine, you really had me going there for a minute. I promise, I'll take the pills everyday like I should. And where in the hell did you call? Saudi Arabia?"

I laughed at his false indignation. "No, the line was still in London."

"Good, because I wasn't going to pay that phone bill if you did." We both laughed, and it felt good, like a weight was slowly being lifted from my shoulders. We sat down at the table and Dad ended the conversation and began eating. I began thinking about my dreams again. Why was this happening? Am I supposed to learn something from witnessing another person's life? Why do I suddenly like different foods and know different languages? I replayed the dreams that were in Paris. Perhaps that's where I need to go. The most vivid dreams I've had so far were in Paris.

"Let's go to Paris," I said blatantly.

Dad dropped his fork. "What?"

"I said, let's go to Paris."

"Jesus, it's always one thing to another with you now, Christine. What do you want to go to Paris for?"

Lie. "Wouldn't you like to see Paris again before you kill yourself of a heart attack?"

He groaned. "First of all, you scared the heebie jeebies out of me with that phone call. I said I promised I would take those pills again. Secondly, I'm trying to think of you, here. You've been so different lately, and I'm trying to adjust to the new you. It's like I have a completely new daughter," he said so quietly I had to strain to hear him. He sounded on the verge of tears. I heard him breath in and he continued. "A trip to Paris so soon may not be for the best."

"Dad, I'm fine." More lies. "A trip to Paris would be good for me. I need to get away from here for a while, even if only for a few days. I haven't seen Paris since that seventh year school trip. Plus, it's been ages since you and I have gone on any type of holiday together."

He sat there looking down with his brow scrunched together, deep in thought. He finally looked up at me with a blank expression, then broke out into a smile. "Well then, I guess we're going to Paris."

I smiled broadly at him, genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. "You're sure you don't mind missing your Wednesday Theatre Night?"

"Christine, I get a chance to go to one of the most beautiful cities in the world with my beautiful daughter. I'm even going to bring my violin! Do you know how long I've dreamed of playing it on a street corner on a sunny afternoon? And just think, I'll have you right by my side to sing along with me like we used to in the park."

I felt like a little kid at Christmas.

* * *

**A/N: Quick update, I know, but I was eager to post. And I apologize that this chapter is somewhat shorter than others, but I wanted to take things a little slow because things will be picking up quick! And I realize that's most likely not what happened with Luciana and Reza in Susan Kay's _Phantom_, but I'm still stuck at the beginning, and I doubt I'll be picking it up any time soon. I don't like reading ahead in books and I thought it would be fun to make up what happens since this is a modern day retelling.**


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